NightLock
by TotallyCaptivated
Summary: Sherlock was always one to draw attention to himself, and now he needs a new flat mate to even the suspicions out. But once a new series of murders sets in the danger becomes all the more real and all the more bloodthirsty. Vampire! Sherlock
1. One

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| A Vampire AU. I know it's been done, but I had too.

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><p>I should be used to it by now.<p>

The nagging hunger in the depths of my core that never truly goes away, regardless of how much cold blood I engorge myself with.

It's a tactless game, between hunger and I, who will give in first.

I stand now in the corner of the morgue, the florescent lights already dulled off.

It is eerily quiet.

The room smells of iodine and metallic bleach, but I have grown used to the smells by now. I'm here every week.

The blood today is colder than usual.

Not as fresh but somehow I manage to swallow it down.

It's thick in my throat, and I feel as though it could choke me at any moment. I drain the bag in seconds, the plastic cool but just a tad bit warmer between my heated grappling fingers. I close my eyes,

steadying my ragged breaths. I was hungrier than I thought. Too used to the feeling of starvation. I feel slightly dizzy but it passes in a heated wave as the frigid unwanted blood rushes like a tickling of

flames through my veins. I can hear my heart, beating louder and steadier. I am not longer woozy. I can stand without the world morphing. Suddenly the details of the room sharpen, they become clear as

crystal again and I am aware of the mousy young woman standing awkwardly in the doorway. The now empty blood bag crinkles unceremoniously between my fingers.

"Molly." I acknowledge her presence with the dark raspy baritone of my awakened voice, my freshly jump started heart. I can bear the flickering of the florescent lights as they stagger on. I couldn't handle

the light before. Now it doesn't bother me in the least.

"I'm sorry this one wasn't as…um, fresh. I was a bit late to the refrigeration and we haven't had any new donors in a while…"

"It's alright. This," I indicate to the plastic crumbled between my nails, "Is perfect. Thank you." It's hard to spot the flush of blood to her cheeks, the red liquid turning up to her face in her surprised

embarrassment. Molly always becomes fluster around me. It's unbearable when I'm starving. Not so now. I can hear her heart though, beating fast beneath her white starch lab coat and thick polyester

sweater. I nod to her and swoosh by, and I can hear her gasp slightly as I brush her arm with the tips of my fingers. I cannot keep the mirth out of my voice.

"Have a wonderful night, Molly." And with that I am gone the shadows claiming my place. The night air is a welcome feel and I stop and let the breeze ruffle the lapels of my coat, the tresses of my chocolate

brunette hair. For a moment I am struck with the force of a memory, one deep and long since buried away. Only, in the past I am not standing alone. I am with someone, holding their hand in mine. And

suddenly I am back again, the image disseminating almost as quickly as it had come. There is the familiar throbbing of my head, the pounding behind my clenched eyes. Dull pains like this always follow a

memory.

Because I'm not supposed to remember, I'm supposed to forget.

I am not to remember my human life although I long for it with every fiber in my being. It's an ache I have, and sometimes it is so strong I physically hurt. I can no longer cry, or at least, I haven't until I…

And the pain is back and persitant so I shut down and slowly make my way down the wet cement sidewalks, the dainty asphalt roads. I am almost turning, have nearly crossed the street when a car pulls up

beside me and I don't wait for it to stop completely. I am inside before the driver has made a coherent thought if I am indeed Sherlock Holmes. The leather is familiar. Smells like a rental car and cigarette

smoke and jelly turnovers and I don't have to check the lightening screen on my phone to know it's Mycroft.

"Where is he tonight?" I drone and the driver looks wearily back. His first night with Mycroft, undoubtedly his last, and he looks young and healthy and oh so fresh and it's all I can do but to quench the

rumbling of my stomach.

"His house sir, 43-"

"I know where it is." My voice sounds rougher than I had intended it to but I can't help it, not with a hollow building its way in my heart and my new growing desire for the rapidly beating heart that is driving

me to my destination. But I have attacked one of Mycroft's snacks before and I had escaped with half an arm and a bit ridden ear. Although I would never find myself admitting this to my brother: It hurt. If I

were he I wouldn't have felt such miniscule pain such as that. But I am not Mycroft, I am not a purebred like our mother and I never will be. So of course those marring wounds had hurt. I can still feel

simplicity. The driver pulled shakily up the gravel and I took no time in exiting the vehicle. The boy's sweat was beginning to smell a little to intoxicating. I walk the rest of the drive up to Mycroft's door. It's

wide and dark mahogany and I rasp on it until my knuckles leave small round dents in the wood. I smirk, a small little flitter. It will just be another one of those pesky annoyances that he can't stand.

I don't hear Mycroft unlock the door, he is very quiet when he wishes to be, and I barely have time to register my brother's actions before I find myself seated across from him in front of a roaring fire. I don't

see the need for the flames. They're warm, yes, but we don't need that much heat. We're supposed to be creatures of the dark, yes? So why must he always insist on such a large fire? I don't fully

understand why this harmless nostalgic accessory annoys me but it does and I cross my legs and arms to show him my obvious distaste. He only raises a brow. My brother has looked the same for years.

Receding hairline, beady eyes, perked nose, daunting aura. Before he speaks he licks his lips.

"You are drawing too much attention to your eccentricities." I raise my brows. Then for good measure look at the large open room around me. The useless couches, overstuffed with feather down, silk drawn

lamps and velvet drawn drapes. Slowly my gaze meets his. I can tell he is slightly ruffled by my silent evaluation.

"How is it, Mycroft," I speak in a low bored drone when he decides to hold quiet, "that you accuse me of drawing attention when you're name is almost in every business tabloid? When you are the whole of

the British government?" Mycroft purses his lips; his eyes narrowing like a parent would when scolding a child. I hate that look.

"You tend to stick out, dear brother." His voice is oozing with snotty contempt. "The others are worried, you cause too much attention to yourself while you're out and about _playing_ detective. Lestrade has

been suspecting you for some time. You are drearily obvious." I scoff, shifting some in the lushness' of the crimson armchair I'm draped across. This whole conversation is utterly pointless. I will end up

deleting this night anyway. I feel the need to inform Mycroft of this. His eyes glint in the light of the fire and for a moment I realize how dark they are. Upon further examination his skin is paler, his lips more

chapped. I lean forward with an arrogant air.

"You must be dying to sink your teeth into that young boy. Why call me over when you're starving? Diets aren't good for you, Mycroft, the weak look doesn't suit you." And with that I stand, stopped by the

clicking of my brother's heel against the wooden leg of his armchair. I stop and turn with a sigh.

"You need a flat mate." For a moment I do nothing but stare. Then give a deep laugh that holds no value or tone of humor. When I can tell he's serious the humor sneaks its way in.

"Are you serious? Are you sincerely proposing I share my flat with someone? Honestly, Mycroft, even you can't be that dense!" The older vampire stood with a flourish, standing before me before I had a

chance to register his movements. I gritted my teeth in desperation. I'm always one step behind.

"I couldn't be more severe on this matter, Sherlock." My name was spat from his tongue as though it was poison. I felt anger pulse through me. But I buried the feeling in an instant.

"Who do you suggest then, Mycroft? Do you think I'll be able to control myself for long? We haven't had a danger night in ages, are you willing to risk one again-?"

"It is decided, Sherlock. Lest you truly value the cause in attracting hunters, I suggest you return to the labs tomorrow. Be there by three." I could feel my eyes widen slightly at his words. I threw what he

said around in my mind for good measure.

"Three?" I echoed, my voice light with giddy disbelief. "You expect me to go out _during the day_?"

"No, I expect you to go before the sun rises. Sleep on the tables, you've done it before."

"I don't sleep anymore, Mycroft." I spat stepping back and curling my hands into fists at my sides.

"Oh, so you have finally lost all sense of your humanity?" I wanted to smash the mocking vampires mouth in where he stood. Crush his throat and make him choke on his teeth. I felt a gnawing pain in my chest. I could sleep; being half human it wasn't that hard. But the dreams that sleep brought…

…Besides, I didn't need it. Sleeping's boring.

"I'll be at the hospital tomorrow, if you get the fuck off my back." I snapped stomping out of the room in a petulant flurry. The door opened and swung back rhythmically, and I noticed the boy stick his head

out the window as I passed.

"Do you want me to drive you home, Mr. Holmes?" He called and I felt a pang in the pit of my stomach. I didn't reply, just kept walking until the sky turned maroon and I snuck back into the morgue. It

wasn't hard, and I couldn't help passing the bathrooms. Slowly I went in. It was so still in the hospital, especially in this wing, and I couldn't help the clenching of my throat as I turned in the direction of the

mirror. No reflection. I had no one watching me. I was alone.

* * *

><p>I hadn't expected to spend the world's waking hours hunched over a microscope and some samples of my blood in the lab. It was all I could do to keep the boredom at bay. It was three fifteen when Mike<p>

walked in, brisk as ever. He smelled of coffee and morning Internet porn, and I couldn't help but wrinkle my nose at his smells. But why was he here? He sent me a knowing look, a knowing smile before

another scent invaded my senses: coffee, fresh shampoo, earth, and something else entirely, something…exotic. I couldn't help snapping my head in the general direction of the smell. And I stopped short. My

hands trembled on the vials. My mind went gloriously blank. I stopped breathing. The man that had just stepped foot into my domain was exquisite. His scent was utterly intoxicating and I stifled the groan I

would surely make at the smell of him. His eyes were deep thoughtful blue, though looked brown at some angles. He stood straight and tall, and metal cane balanced in the middle of his palm. He didn't need

it. He shouldn't be holding it, hiding those strong nimble fingers from me. Calloused, doctors hands, steady. Trained gaze, saluted posture: solider, army doctor. My thoughts are jumbled. For the first time in

my life I am unable to formulate them clearly. He is staring at me now, his head slightly tilted, his fresh rosy lips parted, white teeth peeking through. The color of his plaid shirt was ruffled some near the top;

a button of his had popped loose and _oh _the exposed skin of his neck made my heart pound. I can hear his heart, beating strong in his chest. His flesh was tanned. Afghanistan. My tongue has gone dry. I

blink furiously, and my breath hitches in my throat as his lips pull up into a sensuous smirk.

"John Watson, nice to me you. I heard you were looking for a new flat mate."

_Fuck_.

* * *

><p>Welp, I have had this idea for a while and I just had to do it. Inspired by the song "I'll be your vampire".<p>

Reviews would make my day. (:

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	2. Two

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| A Vampire AU. I know it's been done, but I had too.

* * *

><p>Living with John Watson is something I can't ever see myself becoming used to. His few belongings that he has brought with him to the flat (an old armchair, pillows, tea kettle, jam, foot rest, etc.)<p>

smell entirely of him. I am left dizzy and nauseous if I spend more than three hours in his presence. The first two weeks I hated it. I couldn't stand him, or his moving into my flat, my sanctuary, and my

place to get away from the periodic elements of the day. I was rude and surly, and once for a day he had withheld talking to me altogether. And that act brought something in me, a deep heavy gross feeling.

Guilt.

As I recline spread out on our couch, (_our_, since when had I started thinking like that?) I don't believe Mycroft thought this thing through at all. I don't go out during the day, especially when it's

sunny. Seldom times I must on a case but only when the sun and it's heat is no where to be found. I am sometimes able to manage this thanks to the half human part of me. I barely make myself known

and news from New Scotland Yard has been slow. I am irritable. But John is patient, he is patient and kind, and he can put up with my ravings. I find myself hating him for it.

His first day here he had spotted the skull I keep on top of the mantle piece. It was all the company I needed until now. He had looked slightly quizzical, and asked in a suspicious tone: "Whose this?" I

smirked at his choice of words. "An old friend." I had replied and it's true. That skull used to have skin and eyes and a mouth. It used to talk back to me. But then my head had begun to throb and John

must've sensed it because he left it at that. He doesn't comment on the drawn shades, only opened at night, and he doesn't complain about my playing violin. In fact I was doing just that now. John wasn't

home yet though. I suppose he had gone out drinking, perhaps with a new girl. He seems to like women, the feel of them around. It feels off to me, his desire for them, but I have held my tongue thus far,

and I can hold it now. Only I'm hungrier. My stomach feels like it's in knots. It's only been two days since my last "meal". I have become more prone to the hunger as of late. It is around eleven when John

comes home. He looks mildly disappointed but gently closes the door as to not interrupt me. I don't mean to speak to him. I hadn't even thought of opening my mouth yet there it goes, opening, and words

tumble clumsily out.

"How long did she talk about herself?" John started, turning from where he was in the kitchen to look back at me. His eyebrows are raised, his expression expecting. In this light he looks handsome.

"All night, actually." He gives a small chuckle and I feel a shiver go up my spine. It would be better for the both of us if my hands are preoccupied. I begin to play. I hear him in the kitchen, the kettle

settling down on the stove, but after a second glance at the metal contents ringed with a failed science attempt, I hear John place it in the sink. He exits the kitchen, sitting himself down on the couch and I

continue to play, to even my breathing out. Do not inhale, do not inhale, do not- shit. He smells of wine and pasta and fresh cologne, and I immediately close my eyes and turn to face toward the window. I

am struck by his gaze on me; I can feel it burning into my side. My fingers fumble on the strings and my bow slips jerkily. In irritation I stop, collect myself and begin again. I can barely hear the notes I play.

All of my concentration is on trying to get used to the mere scent of John.

"It's lovely." His voice startles me and I crack open an eye. His face looks peaceful, content, his cheeks flushed slightly from the alcohol and his eyes alight with the tune of my song. Then I hear his

words. Lovely. _Lovely_! My music? No, I have never played anything- and now I notice. I hadn't realized the change in my melody until now. The notes that I am unconsciously playing are soft, whimsical, and

light. Not at all like me, not at all something I have ever played. This is different, and suddenly I am nervous. I stop. I drop my bow to the floor and swing myself into my leather armchair; the material

crinkles under the added weight. John stares at me in confusion.

"Sorry, did I-?" I wave his comment away. We sit in comfortable silence, just us two, and I can't help the light weighted feeling in my chest. It sickens me, what John makes me feel. I hate these

newfound feelings. I glance in his direction and he has taken to looking out the window where droplets of water have begun to gather. It is raining and I didn't notice.

I didn't notice.

Worry floods through me at the thought. How much have I lowered my guard these past couple of weeks? Suddenly I want John gone. I don't want him here anymore with me. I was fine alone, absolutely

fine. I feel this way until he speaks. I always seem to loose my train of thought when I hear his words. I ask him to repeat himself. He shakes his head slightly before his dark gaze flickers up to mine. I know

what he sees. My eyes are darker. Much darker. And I am hungry.

"Sherlock…" My name falls from his lips like a spoken prayer. My heart flutters. I feel so pathetic in this moment. "Have you been sleeping?" Frankly I am startled by his tone. His voice sounds

concerned, and I do not know how I am supposed to deal with apprehension. No one has bothered to worry over me before. I have to clear my throat before I speak.

"Sleeping's boring." I mutter petulantly, and I can tell the doctor side of him is coming forward. I smile. Just barely, at his annoyed groan.

"You look awful." He says and I only raise my brows. That's your fault, John, I want to say but I don't. Instead I only nod in agreement. I can see a grin pulling at the edges of his lips. His eyes are

bright. He has a kind face. I feel safe. This revelation strikes me like a slap in the face.

I feel safe with John Watson.

I feel safe with a weak, lost, mortal. What has happened to me? I am angry again. I don't realize that John has risen from his seat and is standing beside my chair. I jump as his palm presses gingerly against

my forehead. I am floored. My fingers clench at the arms of my chair like a lifeline. My heart explodes in heat. I can feel my fangs tingle _dammit_ they actually twitch in anticipation. But there is more than

just hunger here and that's what makes the panic sink in. There is a light friendly warmth emanating through John's skin. It warms my body, alights my nerves in the most human of ways. I am shaking.

"Calm down, Sherlock, I'm not going to bite you," I muffle a whimper for his choice of words, "Just making sure you're not getting yourself sick." I swallow. My mouth has gone dry. He removes his

hand, shaking his head. I am disoriented as he passes me to the fireplace, lighting the old logs that lay there. I have never used them. He has a fire going in seconds.

"You're freezing." He explains and wipes his strong calloused hands on his jeans. I don't trust myself to speak. I am barely able to keep my body in the chair. I feel faint from everything that is about

John. He smiles at me and I feel like I'm melting. He sits himself down on the coach and after a few minutes thunder rumbles throughout the flat. The rain is really coming down. The fire crackles on the

hearth. The logs crumble slowly beneath its electrifying heat. John is asleep in twenty minutes. I watch him, the calm rise and fall of his chest. He looks content. And suddenly I am overwhelmed with

adoration. John made a fire for me. To keep me warm. And I am warm. I am totally and utterly warm. It takes me a moment to gather my wits but I do and I stand, making my way slowly towards the

sleeping ex-army doctor. _You are different_ I think as I kneel down beside him. We are eye level now. I can't help but feel dizzy in his presence but already I am becoming stronger against his smell. I don't

trust myself to get any closer. But I can speak now, and I do.

"Dream for the both of us, John." And I watch him until the sun rises and I set out for the morgue.

* * *

><p>The blood packets have never been so unappealing. I am left wholly unsatisfied. But I know the color has returned to my cheeks, the warmth to my skin. That is all I need. Perhaps then John will not<p>

touch me again. I think this with regret. I already miss his touch. It is moments like these that I hate the human side of me even more. If only my emotions were stone. If only they were hidden like

Mycroft's. But I can't help it.

I have become weak.

* * *

><p>Molly is beside me in the lab today. She is looking through old books and watching me from the corner of her gaze. It is Wednesday. These days are always slow. I am instantly bored. I crave to go out into the<p>

sun, out to where John is. I find myself staring down thoughtfully at the white plastic coating of the table. Bored. I am so very bored.

"Um, so I hear you got a flat mate." Molly chips, her voice cracking near the end. I can tell she is desperately trying to rid her tone of any jealousy. She is failing. I glance at her. She does not carry the

warmth John does. When I don't answer she begins to fidget with the buttons on her blouse. Its new, her shirt, freshly bought. I can smell the department store on her. "Sherlock, Lestrade knows about

you." I am not surprised. Most people are aware of the existence of vampires it is an unspoken truth. That is why Donovan feels the need to call me "freak". She masks her fear in insults. Because I can't hurt

her. _They_ forbid it. And in order for humans and vampires to coexist there are rules that must be followed. That includes the devouring of human flesh without that human's consent. Although those rules are

constantly broken. It is a strained relationship. I scoff.

"He has always known, Molly. He just now feels the need to vocalize it because he is frustrated about his wife cheating on him." Molly falls into a shocked silence. She doesn't speak until I gather my

coat to leave. The sun is setting beautifully over the stone tops of gathered buildings.

"Sherlock, um, I-I need to tell you something." I can barely hear her. She is so very quiet. Expecting I turn. She looks insanely nervous, her cheeks burning and her nails picking at the loose cuticles

on her fingers. "We-um, have been low on blood these past couple of weeks. There's not, uh, not much left…" She trails off and I feel myself turning to face her fully. I already know what she will say. "If you

want fresh…" She takes a deep breath, "…Fresh blood then you can have me." Her words tumble out in a blinding heap and I remain still in place. I find myself angry at her offer. I don't mean for my voice to

come out cold but it does. It always does.

"Don't be ridiculous. Don't be so eager to place yourself forward. I am a sick creature, Molly. You must remember that. You can do so much better." And I leave in a vexed flurry of swirling anguish.

* * *

><p>John is home when I arrive. He leaves work at six. And he looks hungry. I study him for a moment, slouched poorly in his armchair. He looks worn. I can hear our landlady, Ms. Hudson downstairs.<p>

She had mentioned John coming home upset. It seems that someone had died today. The bags under his eyes and the smell of morphine tell me all that I need to know. This withered look does not suit John.

I don't bother taking off my coat. I just tie my scarf about my neck even tighter. A reminder to stay in control.

"John." He jumps at the sound of my voice and turns in his chair.

"Oh, hey." His tone is rough. I find myself missing his smile.

"Dinner?" He looks startled, disbelief etched on every feature of his pale complexion. It takes him a moment to respond, but when he does I can't help a smile. And a twitch of subtle desire.

"Starving."

* * *

><p>Aw! Sherlock and John are off to dinner…at night…in a city with more than just two vampires (hinthint). ;)<p>

Reviews would make my day. (:

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	3. Three

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| A Vampire AU. I know it's been done, but I had too.

* * *

><p>The night was colder than I anticipated. Well, colder for John really, the frigid air doesn't particularly bother me. I considered us hailing a cab but being stuck in a confined space with John did not seem safe.<p>

Besides, we are almost to our destination; a small restaurant tucked away between rows of shops and tourist attractions. The owner, Angelo, shows us to a table by the front window. I slide soundlessly into

my seat, watching warily as John does the same. I am nervous. Very nervous, and I catch Angelo's gaze. His eyes are dark, wanting. No doubt John has captured his attention. I can feel a possessive rage

crawl like acid through my veins. His eyes dart to meet mine. Our gazes lock in a silent conformation: John Watson is mine. Don't touch him.

Angelo gives John a fleeting glance and quickly disappears. Angelo can control himself better than I can. I focus on the mortals stumbling around in the cold; a couple bundled up under the same coat,

and older man and his son drinking beers in the pub across the street. It is calm…too calm, too quiet, too boring. I find it utterly hateful. John orders and Angelo doesn't turn toward me to ask. He just leaves.

John looks confused, is about to call him back, but I hold up me hand.

"It's alright, John. I don't eat while I'm on a case." John's eyebrows shoot up, and then crunch together in heavy disbelief.

"You're not on a case." He says and I let a grin come forth.

"I'm about to be." He sighs, shakes his head and holds my gaze. I fight not to look away. If he continues to stare at me with those hazy blue eyes…my nails dig painfully into my palm. They draw red

welts upon my porcelain skin. Control, and breathe. Simple enough…only it's not, because John is still staring and I am still aching and I am the one to break eye contact first. Me. I feel slightly ashamed.

"You look better today." John comments and I try to even out my sputtering heart. I can't exactly speak yet.

"Hm?" Is all I manage.

"The colors back in your cheeks. The circles are gone from under your eyes. You look…" But he trails off with a slight uncomfortable clearing of his throat and for a moment I think my ears betray me.

John's heartbeat has increased. I tear my eyes away from the cold outside world and study John's face, the tips of his ears are slightly pink, and his cheeks are flushed. When he's embarrassed it's…insanely

adorable. I nearly choke at my use of sentimental words. What the fuck is happening to me? An uncomfortable silence lingers. Angelo is taking his time with the food…but then I notice John's façade and

remember why we are here having dinner in the first place. Because John has had a hard day at surgery. I am immediately overtaken by guilt.

"John," I speak his name carefully and find I like how it sounds on my tongue. Even his name tastes sweet. He looks up at me expectantly and the blush is gone from his face. I desperately want it

back. "What happened at the hospital today?" He stares at me for a while and I find it hard to read him. Then his eyes dip and he plays with edge of his white napkin. I assume the flimsy piece of cloth is

more interesting than my piercing gaze.

"I…there was a kid, a boy-around eleven years old. His mother stabbed him with the kitchen knife when he refused to clean his room. The wound was deep, pierced straight through his left lung and

cracked one of his ribs. We lost him in ten minutes. He died from blood loss." I remain silent as John takes a deep breath before turning up his head and meeting my gaze. "The kids are always the hardest to

loose." I want to hug John.

I want to reach over the table, pull him across and hug him to my chest, shield him from the horrors of this world. I want to warm him like a fire. Like the fire he lit for me. But I know I can never offer him

this. I am not supposed to be feeling this need for human affection. I am not good with the comforting act. But for John's sake I wish I was.

"John…"I say his name because it's the only thing I can say. The only thing I know how to say. He smiles softly, and to my immediate surprise nods.

"I'm alright, Sherlock. Just a bit put off." I want to say I'm sorry. I want to say that that boy's mother will be in jail by tomorrow. I want to tell him that he shouldn't be in my presence, that I don't

deserve his company. But most of all I want to tell him that he scares me.

John Watson scares me.

I am terrified of the human emotions he is able to drag out of me. I have never felt so frightened.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" This question takes me a moment to process. It is so randomly placed that I have to blink a couple of times to clear my thoughts. John is staring at my expectantly. Oh. Is

this what friend's talk about? I assume we are that label now, I can't keep saying flat mate can I? I have never been placed in a situation like this before. I clear my throat, feeling John's gaze hot on me. I

look out the window. I study the crowd. All the woman I see look dull. They look absorbed. They look too friendly, too kind, too…boring.

"No, not really my area." I decide to answer truthfully. But I see John's look of slight surprise and I immediately regret what I had said. After our previous soft-spoken conversation my answer just

changed the field entirely. But John looks comfortable and his aura is contagious.

"Alright. Boyfriend then?"

"Is this what normal people talk about?" I can't help the question. This conversation seems curiously pointless. John laughs.

"I suppose so. Just trying to know more about you." I am confused.

"Why?"

"Because you're different." I don't know why this answer causes my chest to bloom in warmth but it does and I lick my lips, drying to wet them again. My mouth has gone dry.

"Is different good?"

"It's great." I am happy. Damn it all I am happy, and I smile, I allow myself to truly smile. Not too wide, I can't risk the fangs showing but it's so dark in here John probably can't see them either way.

And John's grinning back, and I can't help but feeling like a fool. A friend. Is that what he is to me? Do people usually feel this happy towards a friend? John's food arrives and he eats and I can't help but wish

that human food held an appealing quality to it. I find myself missing normality. But I wipe the thought away quickly. I can't afford to think like that. I sense him first. A shiver down my spine. A ringing in my

ears. I look over John's shoulder. Ah, and there he is. His gaze is sharp, black and hungry. He looks like a newborn, ripe, his nostrils flared. Suddenly I know we are not safe. That John is not safe. And I find

myself hating Mycroft even more for putting his life in harm's way by introducing him to me. By thrusting him into my life. I am in too deep. The vampire continues to hold my gaze, his dark hair shattered in

wet streaks across his forehead. His lips are a little too red. Red…blood. Of course. His mouth is soaked in blood.

Oh, fuck…

He has killed. I wouldn't be surprised if Mycroft called me soon. It looks as though he has just turned. And he is starving. The symptoms are too clear. I need to get John back to the flat. I thank Lestrade on

his timing. My phone vibrates and I answer without any formalities.

"Where's the body?" He answers with a sigh in his voice.

"Corner of Winchester and 21st." I hang up and glance at John. He's looking at me expectantly. I cannot leave him alone. I look back out the window. The vampire is gone.

"Army doctor…" I muse and he just raises a brow. "Any good?"

* * *

><p>Low on blood packs at the morgue…not enough blood for transfusions…mysterious vampire…murder…hmmmmm, I wonder what's going on? Any ideas?<p>

Reviews would make my day. (:

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	4. Four

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| A Vampire AU. I know it's been done, but I had too.

* * *

><p>I instantly regret bringing John to the scene.<p>

I know that he has probably seen worse but…I feel ashamed. Ashamed because I creature like me did this. Mutilated this young woman before us. Chunks of her hair are missing, the loose strands hanging

limp in clumps about the stone floor of the alleyway. Scratches riddle her skin in blood-streaked lines, and her mouth is twisted open in a panic stricken 'o' of horror. Her nails are gone, scratched away by her

clawing fingers against the brick. Her clothes are in ripped tattered ruins. There is blood between her two pale thighs. This vampire did more than bite. It raped her. I can feel something stirring in me at the

thought. I find it repulsive. I don't look at John as I make my forward to Lestrade, a tall older man in a deep trench coat. He's standing by the victim's head.

I duck under the yellow police tape, holding it up for John as he does the same. There's something different about me when John's here. I can feel it. I stand straighter, I'm not side tracked. Or maybe

he _is_ distracting me; I can't help glancing his way. He looks slightly pale but other than that he's fine. I feel a swoon of pride. Lestrade acknowledges us and excuses himself from talking with Donovan. She

sends me a withering look and then her dark eyes go to John. To my amusement she looks surprised, and quickly looks back to me. There is fear in her eyes.

Sally Donovan is scared.

This should please me, I don't care for her in the least, but I know the placement of her fear and it instead fills me with regretful sadness. She is scared for John.

For what I might do to him.

In truth the exact same thing frightens me. Right now John is still studying the body, his eyes lingering on the woman's angled neck. I follow his gaze. Ah, yes, the bites would be obvious. There are

four holes in her neck alone. John is a medical man; he lives in the 21st century. He knows what caused those bites. But he says nothing.

"Whose this?" Lestrade asks in an irritated tone, his tired eyes lingering on John, studying him. Trying to see if he is like me. A bloodthirsty monstrous sociopath.

"He's with me."

"John." The doctor nods and Lestrade and him warily shake hands. It is a tense encounter. I want it to be done. I don't need to examine the body. It is obvious who did it but for the sake of the

officer's around me and so Mycroft will get off my back about "sticking out" I examine the woman. Late thirties, she had a husband she was meeting for dinner, she works at a nearby art gallery and doesn't

keep in touch with her parents, and she drinks on occasion and on Friday nights goes to the theatre with her friends. Boring. As I look closer there is a letter, the corner of what could only be an 'I' sticking out

from under her shredded blouse. Gingerly I lift this clothing article away. Scratched onto her skin are the letters "I.O.U." I can feel my heart freeze. The panic that runs through me is like a cold waterfall. My

mind races with possibilities but I can only form one that is irrelevant, because I took care of this problem decades ago. So I tell myself not to worry, not to overreact. I will keep an eye out, but for now…I will

remain silent. But the woman's blood is thick in the air and the smell of it makes me light headed. I should be full. I shouldn't be hungry anymore. But I am and I have to swallow hard and stand with slow

precision. It's then I notice how artfully the blood is strewn about. It is rubbed on the alley's walls, the corners, everywhere and it's all I can do but breathe it in. John is standing beside me, eyes still

downcast. Why won't he look at me?

"John, can you tell me anything about the body?" I know he can't, he can't find something that I haven't already seen but he came here with me and god knows Lestrade will be searching furiously

for that reason. So John just nods, gaze still faced down, and he kneels by the woman. I can tell by the tense muscles in his back, the blocked hunch of his shoulders that he already knows what happened

here. Just like me he doesn't need to examine her long.

"Was it a vampire?" Everyone goes silent at John's words. The light conversations have stopped completely on that word. I look to Lestrade. He's staring at John in what could only be horror, the color

drained significantly from his face. His eyes dart to me mine. They are cold. I hear someone mutter my name.

"Well, Sherlock?" I lick my lips and watch warily as John slowly stands. He knows something, I realize, and I desperately want to turn him around to face me. His eyes, I need to see his eyes. But I

decide against this and instead turn to Lestrade.

"Yes, all signs point in that direction. The bites on her neck, the severity of the scratches, the significant amount of lost blood… she has been drained. You have a rogue vampire on your hands,

Lestrade, I suggest you start looking." The detective inspector has never looked so old as he does now. Utterly worn. But my head is still throbbing so I can't take the time to care. With a flourish of blue I am

on the side of the street hailing a cab. John's eyes are still downcast. The cab ride home is tense. The blood from the scene is still making me woozy, and John's addictive scent is helping the situation much.

My hands unclench and clench into fists again at my sides. Damn this vampire. Ruining my night. The best night, really, that I have had in a while. And my mind goes back to those three letters and I find

myself surveying every alleyway we drive past, every street corner, every store, to anyone who sticks out.

I see nothing.

The cab stops on Baker Street and John and I file out of the cab. John goes straight for the door and heads inside. I am left to pay. I don't mind, not really, but John's behavior is beginning to worry

me. I make my way up the landing. Ms. Hudson's voice stops me.

"Anything good, Sherlock?" I can't help but scoff.

"Boring!" And close the door to John and my flat with perhaps a bit too much force. But suddenly it is just us. Just John and I and hunger. I feel uneasy. John sits himself down in his armchair, sinking

himself deep into the cushions. Then he stands and goes into the kitchen. I can hear him rummaging around in the cabinets. I hear him unscrew a bottle cap and pour. Vodka, by the sloshing of the drink.

John only drinks when he's wound up. Perhaps it is because of the woman. Maybe her violated body brought up an unwanted memory.

"John." I call out his name before I can think to stop myself. He appears in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a glass in his left hand. I slowly discard my scarf, my coat. Everything smells like blood.

I'll need to take a shower. I realize that my nails have been digging into my palms this whole time. I have made myself bleed without even realizing it. I clear my throat. I watch John watching me. "The

woman…did her state of abuse offend you?" It's the best I can do at this time. I can't think clearly right now. Not with John and blood so close together. John studies me for a moment, his eyes deep and dark

and I feel as though I can drown in them. He gulps the rest of his drink. I can practically feel the burning of his throat. He doesn't seem to notice it. But he has noticed something else. Because John is not

ignorant, John is not stupid, John does not pick and choose the things he sees, John is John and he is fantastic. I brace myself for his next words:

"Are you a vampire?"

* * *

><p>Reviews would make my day. (:<p>

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	5. Five

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| A Vampire AU. I know it's been done, but I had too.

* * *

><p><em>"Are you a vampire?"<em> This is the first time anyone's asked me this. My eyes don't leave John's. They don't stray away. I hold his gaze in my own until his eyes are all that I can see. It is then that I answer.

"I'm a hybrid." I see confusion flicker along the edges of his eyes and he glances down at his empty glass.

"So, what, you're half vampire, half…" His eyes turn up to me again. "…Human?" I nod, but can't shake away the inkling of anxious fear that's tapping against the corners of my heart. John wouldn't

leave, would he? This is certainly not the strangest thing that's been told to him has it?

"I think I'm going to need another drink." He states after a while and before I can stop myself-my body has been betraying me as of late-I am before him, obscuring his view. He blinks up at me in

bewildered surprise. He hadn't even had the chance to turn yet.

"Sherlock…"

"I am not driven for only blood, John." I find myself saying, my eyes burning into his. What is he thinking? "My human emotions give me some control over my…demonic urges. I am weaker though,

in every term of the word, than those who are pure to my kind." I lick my lips in a nervous fidget, suddenly aware of John's closeness, of the heat emanating from his body. But he is rigid, shoulders back in a

military stance. I do not know if he is afraid, but I feel the need to reassure him anyway. "I will not hurt you, John." John studies my face for a moment and then his eyes soften. They seem to glow in their

warmth.

"I'm not scared of you, Sherlock." Perhaps he heard the desperation in my tone, the fear that's still clawing. Or maybe he felt the sincerity in my voice. I blink to clear my gaze. My vision has grown

slightly misty. To my astonishment he smiles and shakes his head.

"Wow…this is an, uh, interesting day." I can't help but let out a breezy laugh. He joins me, his more of a high-pitched giggle but it is endearing next to my low baritone. I feel myself relax. What had I

been afraid of again? John puts down his glass, wistfully looking in the direction of the bottle before he sits himself down at our narrow kitchen table. I move aside my microscope and vials and join him. The

florescent light above his head sputters in the dark. It is only eight.

"So, you have fangs?" He whispers and I smirk at the childish wonder in his expression.

"Yes."

"Can I see them?" I hesitate, instantly unsure and slightly uncomfortable, but I lean forward and pull back my lips, part my mouth. It takes John a moment but he grins.

"Shit, they're sharp." I am beyond amused. I try to stifle my grin.

"Of course, they need to be."

"So you can tear through skin?" My lips twitch.

"…Yes." I am surprised as John reaches out a finger and gently runs it along the point of my left fang. I feel pressure on the white enamel and I want to warn him from pressing against the tip too

hard. I don't think I could restrain myself if John cuts himself on me, if he drops his blood on my tongue. I am almost loosing it with John so close…his finger in my mouth…his skin salty and sweet and I can

feel the heart beat in his finger. He pulls away in a jerking motion.

"You're eyes are black." He whispers, his voice catching near the end. Now I can hear his fear, his anxiety. I close my eyes for his sake. I try to calm my breathing. It takes a minute or five, but when I

open my eyes again I see him relax as I regard him with my light blue gaze.

"John," And I am struck by how rough my voice has become, "For a while, just until I am used to you, I will need some space…" Realization quickly flickers across his features and his face instantly

flushes. I have to grip the edges of the table to keep from attacking him. In this flustered state he looks utterly delectable. The taste of his skin is still dominant on my tongue.

"Oh! Oh, right, yeah…uh, sorry, I didn't think-"

"It's fine." We fall into silence for the umpteenth time that night. The light is buzzing like a vacuum and I feel the need to strip it from the wall. My phone vibrates and I glance down at the number.

Mycroft. He can wait. But soon the vibrations return and John clears his throat, drawing my full attention. He tilts his head to my jittering phone. And of course I can't help but listen to him, although I do not

have to look happy about it. And I don't.

"What do you want?" My brother's voice is a light monotone when he responds.

"Always nice to hear your voice."

"You're boring me already." I can hear him sigh. I can practically feel his agitation roll off of him in waves.

"You are most likely already aware that we have a rogue vampire coloring up the city." I don't respond but my eyes can't help flicking up to John. His eyebrows are knitted together, his eyes

calculating, and he looks as though he is trying to figure out whom I am speaking to. I don't wish to tell him about Mycroft. But it is guaranteed he will ask. I snap back as Mycroft snarls my name. I have

sufficiently been blocking him out. Funny, I hadn't even realized.

"Sherlock Holmes fix this." I can't help but flinch at my brother's tone.

"Fix it?" I sneer. "Isn't that your job?"

"I'm already trying to calm everyone of every place down. Now do this for me, dear brother. Your name has arisen." Before I could say anything more the line had gone dead. I can't contain my frustration.

"Who was that?"

"The cause of all my problems." I remark in a surly tone, standing and walking over to where I had draped my coat and scarf earlier. I can hear John walking from the kitchen table to take his place

leaning against the doorframe.

"Where are you going?" I tie my scarf about me quickly; my coat flips over my shoulders with ease. I don't want to leave John here alone, but he will be safer here than running around a darkening London.

"There's a malicious vampire on the loose, John, I can't just sit here." John pushes himself up from the white wood.

"I'll come with you." My heart drops in my chest. Every inch of me wants to say yes, because I don't like leaving John. I don't. But in the grasping situations where his well being is concerned…

"No, you'll stay here. It's safer." I can see the anger and hurt flash in his eyes as I make my way to the door. He reaches out for me and I don't mean to jolt away. But my instincts are sharp and I do,

instantly regretting it. His face falls, his hand slips down awkwardly to his side. He nods and then I am opening the door and leaving, trying desperately to bury my self-loathing under the heavy fall of my

steps on the wooden stairs. It doesn't work. I hate myself even as I step outside into the cold night. Well, better retrace my steps. I couldn't concentrate very well at the crime scene earlier. Another excuse

why John couldn't come: I can't take my eyes off him.

* * *

><p>I don't have the time or patience right now to take in the feel of the wind through my hair (although it does calm me somewhat still). The woman's abused body had been removed. The only evidence<p>

that she had been there is the police tape and drying bloodstains. There is nothing here that I haven't already seen. I sigh my fingers scraping along the fabric of my coat. I can still smell it…the blood…a wave

of intimate hunger rolls over me. Its force takes me aback. I roll my tongue against my teeth and I taste John. His touch still lingers. I am breathing harder than I have realized. Furiously I dig in the pockets

of my Belstaff pea coat, my gloved leather hands picking out a small package of cigarettes. Without further ado I slip the white stick between my trembling dry lips and light it with reverent grace. The smoke

is refreshing. It washes John away and I can't help but groan at the subduing hunger. My stomach had felt as though it was on fire. Now the nicotine chases it away. I am grateful. My eyes flick upwards,

taking in the vast expanse of stars. It is drearily quiet. Or it would be if the footsteps weren't so loud. I turn as they stop ten feet from me, just outside the yellow plastic boundary of _"police line, do not _

_cross"._

It is the vampire from before. He looks fresh this time, his hair glossy and his eyes light. His skin doesn't look sickly; instead it has a nice healthy glow. My eyes narrow upon his close scrutiny. With a

sigh I spit out my cigarette, watching it fall dead upon the bricks. We stand in silence. I do not want to speak. I am not in the mood. I don't have to wait long though. He seems like he's dying to open his

mouth. So I give him the opportunity.

"She tasted good." It was the first thing he said. I already want to rip his throat out, but I will myself steady. I don't reply.

"She screamed real nice too." He says, his eyes glancing down at the yellow plastic rope separating him from me. Slowly, he lifts it up and slips himself under it. He smells awful. Like blood and old

semen. He sickens me.

"You get my master's note?" I tilt my head at his words. I.O.U. flashes deep in my mind.

"Your master?" My voice is dark and rough, the nicotine just adding on and I am secretly grateful for the extra edge. It makes this fledgling before me flinch.

"I can't tell you his name. Not yet anyway. He just wanted me to get your attention is all." I groan inwardly at his grammar.

"He made you mutilate a young woman to get my attention?" The vampire before me laughs, it is a barking sort of chuckle and I hate it. Slowly I begin to discard my gloves.

"Well, ya' know, I didn't have to go that far, but she just tasted so damn good." His eyes gleam then, mischievous and deadly. "You had a human with you tonight. Saw you two at that restaurant." I

tuck my gloves into the black of my pockets. "He smelled first-rate too, I could smell him a mile awa-" He chokes on his own blood. My nails are sharp and the skin of his neck is thin. They cut through easily

enough. And I am hungry again, this red now staining my cheeks, my hands, and my hair. I lean forward and bite his shoulder with furious disregard. My anger is like acid in my veins. He is already withering

in my hold. This won't kill him, but it will render him unconscious. I drink until I am full, until I can think of John without this other vampire's gaze upon him. My desire for the doctor is still there, and it is

troubling. The vampire falls limp in my arms. I don't hesitate to break off the leg of a nearby bench and ram it into the creature's heart. He gives a cry before his eyes roll back and his blood mingles in with

the brick. I look about myself warily. No one in sight, which is odd but perfect for this moment. I decide to carve my own message into the dead vampire's skin. A simple smiley face on his hip. I throw the

body in a nearby dumpster and head back to Baker Street, all the while fiddling with my gloves and relishing in the feel of a full stomach. I haven't had fresh blood in ages. For a moment I am content.

* * *

><p>Reviews would make my day. (:<p>

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	6. Six

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| A Vampire AU. I know it's been done, but I had too.

* * *

><p>John's reaction to my coming home splattered in blood was simple: "What the hell happened?" I wave him off and shrug off my coat, debating whether or not I want to shower immediately. I decide I don't.<p>

So I bend down and take up my violin, listening to John's even breaths. He makes his way to his armchair and sits himself down, his head rolling back against it. He is eyeing me with concerned confusion.

"What?" I snap after a moment, the intensity of his gaze unnerving.

"You look…" His eyes travel along the contours of my face, his gaze dipping down and taking in the rest of my lithe form. I can't help the stirring of coiling warmth in my stomach. John shakes his

head and stands, disappearing into the kitchen. I deduce that now is a good time as any to begin playing, the feel of John's eyes looking over my body is still making me shiver. So I play, not really paying

attention to the movement of my bow or the placement of my fingers. I slip up when John stands before me, demanding my attention. With an irritated sigh I drop my bow.

"What-?" I can't help but flinch as a cool washcloth comes into contact with my stained skin. John is shaking his head, the rag rubbing the drying blood away from myself. His hands dance softly

through my hair and for a moment I can't breathe. His hands feel so much better than the wind, the tips of his nails tickling my brunette locks. My eyes flutter under his gentle touch. I don't remember

anyone showing this much compassion to me before. John gives me a small smile as he removes the washrag, looking down at the blue stained with red.

"Who'd you kill?" He whispers and his voice shakes slightly. I find myself on the defensive.

"The wild vampire." John doesn't say anything more, but he reaches up once again and wipes away a stray dot of blood from my lips with his thumb. A deep shiver goes down my spine at the feel of

his skin on my lip, and I have to bite back a groan. This man before me is intoxicating. It is this thought that makes me freeze, my eyes still left staring intently into John's. He doesn't look away, but he

remains confused. The vampire tonight said he smelled John from a mile away. Is it possible that John smells this amazing to everyone? I am taken aback by the wave of protective jealousy that washes over

me. I have never known myself to be possessive, not really anyway, but John seems to bring out those feelings without even trying.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" John looks gorgeous in this light. The moon shining through the windows gives his skin an illuminated feel, a sparkle to his blue eyes. His lips look a delicious pink, and a

faint blush stains his tanned skin. Beautiful. And suddenly I am struck with the overwhelming urge to lean down and kiss him. But I don't, I hold myself back, but if I hadn't drained that vampire tonight I

may not have been able to. John is still staring at me and I don't want to look away.

"Will you come to the morgue with me tomorrow?" I whisper, my voice cracking slightly near the end. I have to cough slightly to clear my throat. John gives a little laugh.

"I suppose I could. After six though, I'm in surgery all day." I scoff and break eye contact, instead opting for flinging myself down on the couch and curling up there. I don't want John to go to work. I

want him to stay here with me. But my phone takes this time to go off and I just groan and bury my head in a small pillow. John gets it for me, studying the number on the screen.

"I think its Lestrade." He mumbles, and my hand shoots out for the mobile device. He hands it over without hesitation. Our fingers brush. A jolt of electricity sears my nerves but I blink to clear it

away before answering the phone.

"Has there been another murder?"

"Not exactly." Lestrade sounds strained.

"Well then what is there?"

"A photograph."

"I'll be there shortly." I glance at the clock. It's nearing ten. Then I look to John whose staring at me expectantly. I doubt I'll have time to take my shower tonight.

"I'm going down to Scotland Yard." John is already putting on his jacket. I don't have the heart to tell him not to come.

* * *

><p>I have to admit the stares are disconcerting. They are long lasting and cold, only some carry a suspicious edge. I hold my head higher. Let them stare. The photograph was undoubtedly a new lead,<p>

and I hope as I make my way down the white halls with John at my heels that this will be another clue as to who the rogue vampire's "master" is. There is nagging feeling in my gut and I wave to John to

pick up his pace as I open the door to Lestrade's office. I don't bother to knock. He is sitting behind his desk, his head in his hands, and he rises up his eyes to watch as John and I enter. I see him visibly

relax.

"Where's the picture?" He passes it over without hesitation. John stares over my arm, and I tilt the image so he can see it better. When I truly study it I can't help the prick of cold fear down my

spine. I know this. I have seen this before. But it has been years. The photo itself is simple, the image even more so. It is a close up of someone's thigh, a woman's judging by the clean skin. Carved deep

down into the flesh is a spider. It is bloody, the skin pulling up along the corners. I try not to rip the photograph in half. That would not look good for this case. I find myself gnawing on my lip in aggravation

and immediately stop. I hand the photo to John who takes it warily.

"When did this arrive?" Lestrade studies my face before he speaks.

"Twenty minutes ago." He says slowly, watching to see any change of emotion in my eyes. But they are cold, and I portray no feeling in them.

"Sherlock…have you seen this symbol before?" John looks from Lestrade to me. He silently hands the picture back.

"Yes. A long time ago." I am grateful Lestrade doesn't ask the precise range of time.

"What does it mean?" I swallow my anger down, and my eyes dart to the window. I see the black sky through the gaps in the blinds.

"It's a vampire trying to get my attention." I state blatantly and John soundlessly closes the door to the office. We are left in a harsh silence.

"A vampire? Is it the rogue-?" But I wave Lestrade's question away.

"No, I took care of that one. He was only a fledgling, this man-no, this thing," I nearly spat the word, indicating with my eyes to the picture laying on Lestrade's desk, "Is a full fledge vampire. I

encountered him twice in Paris. I thought I killed him but…" It is then that I let myself trail off. I remember the blood, I remember the stake, I remember everything clearly. It makes no sense for him to still

be alive. Yet he is, and he is here in London, and I have to end this before it can begin again. It is John who speaks next.

"What's his name?" I grit my teeth, my fangs scraping roughly over each other.

"Jim Moriarty."

"And he's what…? What will he do?" I turn to John, my mouth a thin hard line.

"He will try to entertain himself. Lestrade," I turn to the inspector, whose eyes have grown tired. "I think it's time to announce to your team the seriousness of our predicament. Just keep an eye out

for anything strange and don't invite anyone into the building for a while." He looks confused at this.

"Why?"

"Because he can't enter without being invited in first. One time is all it takes. Call me if anything more shows up. I'm going to the morgue." I turn to leave, coat swirling behind me as I push open the

door. "Coming, John?" I call and he follows without hesitation.

* * *

><p>Reviews would make my day. (:<p>

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	7. Seven

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| A Vampire AU. I know it's been done, but I had too.

* * *

><p>I take John to the lab that night. There is no reason, but I feel like he should see it. Get used to the building. Because of this case we will be spending many days here. John has not yet met Molly.<p>

When the sun begins to rise I sneak up to my room and close the door. I try sleeping. I fail. But I can't leave because I can feel the sun's heat through the walls so I just burrow myself down further into my

bed. I can feel the exhaustion weigh down on me. I have been able to go without sleep for two years, and it seems that my human side can no longer bear the weight. I am exhausted. But I am terrified of

my dreams; of the nightmares I might create. I cannot close my eyes. Or, in truth, I do not want to close them, but they flutter heavy anyway. I hear John in the kitchen. He smells fresh today. I focus on his

scent, on the sound of his heart. I am asleep before I am aware.

I do not dream.

* * *

><p>Lestrade calls me around seven. I sleep through the call, tucked away in the dark crevices of my room. I am vaguely aware of John coming in to check on me before he leaves for work. I awake at five fifty.<p>

The sun has set. Listening to Lestrade's message they have found a body, a young man, near Baker Street. I call John immediately and tell him not to leave work. I tell him to wait and I'll call him when I'm

out front. I do not trust anyone to deliver John back to our flat safely. I must see to that myself.

Mycroft has been unusually subdued. It makes me worry, and I ponder over the possibilities as I sit comfortably in the back seat of the cab. Has he finally let to leaving me alone? Or has he just

caught wind of Moriarty's arrival? After fifteen minutes of thinking I come up with nothing. I call John and he comes outside, slipping in beside me and we drive off once more. We sit in silence, and I can't

help but wrinkle my nose at John's scent. His usual sweetness is covered up by the powerful bulk of morphine. Did he operate on another kid today? My fingers drum absently on my leg, and I find myself

growing agitated as we pull up to the crime scene. Donovan is the first officer I see. I can already feel my head beginning to pound. It has been three days since I've last eaten. In this time I have gone back

through the years to when I had seen Moriarty last. Nothing of use comes up. Nothing but the images of blood.

My stomach stirs as that is the first thing I smell. Blood, two hours old. Sally grimaces as I past.

"Hey, freak!" She calls and I turn absently at the nostalgic nickname. John stiffens in disgust besides me. "Why don't you tell _your kind_ to back off? Can't they control themselves for one fucking

minute?" I tune her out after that. Her insults usually become cleverer once she's got wind. John just grits his teeth as we make our way toward the body. The boy has been treated no better than the

woman. Only this time there is a spider instead of a face, and it is carved red and severe on his lower back. The scent of his blood strikes me like a slap in the face. The red liquid smells stronger than it

normally does, and I find myself clutching John's arm for the support to stay upright. I instantly regret my actions. I didn't think John would realize my stumble and reach out, gripping my other arm and

keeping me balanced. My head feels heavy and I can't help it lolling down. I am almost eye level with the army doctor. I can feel everyone's eyes on me but suddenly they don't exist. Not when I can feel

John's breath fan against my mouth, see every speck of color that makes up his eyes. I feel him stiffen in my hold.

"Sherlock!" He hisses, low under his breath but with enough urgency that I blink and loosen my grip. I had no idea I was clutching to him so hard, my nails almost cutting through the fabric of his

black jacket. I fight to control my breathing. My whole body is shaking. The smell of blood is overwhelming, it stings my senses and I desperately try to wake myself up again. I have enough sense to back

away from John. The streetlamps have flickered on and in this light it is hard to drag my eyes away from him. His hand is still on my arm. I shake it roughly away.

"Lestrade, where is the note?" I flinch at the scratchy tone of my voice. My stomach feels as though it's on fire. Lestrade doesn't bother to look surprised. Instead he wordlessly passes me a slip of

paper. And as I try to examine the body further I realize that I cannot be here. Not for another second. I don't think to tell John to follow me. I'm walking so quickly I can barely process myself where I am

going; only the next time I look up I am standing in front of St. Bart's. My breaths are ragged and short, and I feel as though I have a fever. Nauseous, I am defiantly going to throw up. And I do, bits of

stomach acid that looks slightly red. I get strange looks; one woman tries to walk me up to the hospital. I find that I am running, tripping over myself to get inside. Molly, I need Molly. No, I need blood, blood

packets, blood samples, anything! I have never felt hunger like this. I have never felt a need as deep as this. I stumble into the lab, my fingers scratching against the doors as I fling them mercilessly open.

Molly jumps at a small table, eyes darting up to look frightened up at me.

"Sherlock! What's-?"

"Blood." I gasp, and lean heavily against the wall for support. My fingers grapple the plaster for some kind of support. "Molly, I need-" She is before me in an instant, hands righting me up and guiding

my shaking body to her once occupied chair. I can smell her, the department store perfume, the bounty wash she uses for the stains on her lab coat. I find myself clinging to her, my breath fanning out over

her cheek. She stiffens in my hold, her heart pounding ridiculously fast.

"Sherlock…" The horror in her voice snaps me back. I push myself from her, covering my eyes with my hands. I can't look at the red in her face.

"Please hurry." I snarl, and I have never sounded so desperate.

"Stay here, I'll be back shortly." She flees out the doors, and I listen until I can't hear the click of her heels anymore. When the doors open a second later I look up frantically to see Molly standing in

the doorway, hands empty and eyes frightfully wide. I can feel the panic begin to eat me alive.

"T-There's no…no blood…there's nothing." I instantly think of Moriarty and through a drunken haze I look down at the crumbled paper in my sweating palms. Jim's message to me is clear:

_What is a tick without blood? _

I let out a crazed snarl and my hand flies to my mouth. I don't hesitate to bite down deep into my skin. My teeth scrape against the bone of my knuckles. My blood rushes into my mouth, it makes my

stomach churn. Molly is before me in an instant, begging me to take her. And I am so hungry I almost do. I would have, my mouth is so close to her neck, but I can see John from the corner of my vision and

I can't help but leap back, the chair clattering loudly on the tiled floor. He's standing in the doorway of the lab, breathing heavily, looking from my bleeding hand back to Molly kneeling before me. He doesn't

hesitate to rush over. And I can't take it. I can't deal with John being here, so close to me. I can't hold back the broken sob that rips raw from my throat. I do not want to hurt him, but _I can't hold myself _

_back any longer_.

"Molly, search for more. Find me more!" I am panicking now and I don't bother to watch as Molly scampers out of the room. All I am focused on is the closeness of John, of his heat, of his blood, of his smell…

"Sherlock, what do you need?" I shake my head viciously, my nails clawing dark red lines over the skin of my face. My teeth are clattering angrily together; my body is rocking with speratic tremors.

"Blood, I need…stay…stay away from me, John…I can't…" I flinch back against the wall as John stands up close to me, our chests almost touching and I slam my head back against the white wall

behind me with a pained groan. I will him not to get any closer. The heat that's erupting through my body is burning me alive.

"If you need blood take mine." I thrash my head violently to the side, my teeth tearing my bottom lip to shreds. Control, Sherlock, stay in control… but all of my reasoning goes flying as I see John

shredding his jacket, tan fingers unbuttoning the top buttons of his collared shirt.

"John, please…_don't_…" I am nearly sobbing. His neck is now fully exposed to me and it is tan and thick and full and I can't help it, I reach out, my hands clawing deep into his forearms. He flinches as

my nails dig into his skin but I don't care, I can't help not hurting him. Roughly I rip his collar aside, and his shirt crumples off his broad shoulders. I let my head fall because it's too heavy for me to keep

upright. I breathe him in. He smells like medicine and sweat and some type of fruit, and I can't help but let my tongue snake out and lick a wet, hot trail up the length of his jugular. A heat is building

throughout me, I can barely stand my legs are shaking so badly.

"Drink." He breathes against my ear.

I am undone.

With a guttural moan I sink my teeth into his neck, tearing through the skin and lapping up every drop of metallic blood that presents itself to me. I pull John painfully close, my knee slipping between

his thighs, and I am surprised by the hardness I find there. I whine into his skin, his blood hot and pulsing and _oh _he is better than every drug combined! I drink his blood like a thirsty man would water. John

has become my salvation. He whimpers as my fangs scrape tender flesh, and the noise sends vibrations down his neck. I cannot stop my hands from crushing him as close as physically possible to me, my

fingers clawing at the tautness of his muscles, the smoothness of his skin. And I am shocked to find that I want more than just his blood. I want his body as well. I want John Watson. He shivers under me

and I press my leg up against him, rubbing roughly against the hardening mound between his legs. I suck on his throat as a newborn might for milk. His blood is coating my throat in the most delicious of

ways.

"Sh…Sherlock…" His voice is strained. I am dimly aware of his slowing heart, of his withering hold on me. If I suck him dry he will die. And yet…and yet…he tastes too good…too perfect…too complete…

But he is fading. I can feel it and pulling away is the hardest thing I have ever done. I let him crumble against me, his breathing is harsh and his hair sticks to his sweaty forehead in clumps. The

feeling slowly returns to me. My mind clears. I am overwhelmed by guilt. I wrap my arms around him and pull him gently down, resting him up against the wall. His eyes have fluttered closed. His neck has

ceased its bleeding, but his shirt is ruined and ashamed I gingerly pull it up over his shoulders. To my own disgust I have never felt so alive.

I have never felt so aware.

I have never felt so _human_.

My tongue darts out and I lick away the remainder of his blood from my lips. I can't suppress the shiver than travels down my spine. Slowly I lean forward and press my colored warm lips to his pale clammy forehead.

"Thank you, John." I murmur against his skin. He stirs and I stand, searching in vain for something to patch up his wound. I find a white bandage and iodine, and quickly apply both to his neck. My

teeth had sunk far. Molly returns with nothing and she instantly apologizes for "intruding". I let her leave though. I sit myself down beside John, pulling him to my chest and letting his head rest to my heart.

I situate him so he is placed comfortably between my legs. I hug him close to me. In this moment I feel nothing but pleasant warmth. I let my mind wander. Jim Moriarty, I am confused by what he wants

but it has become obvious that his stunt tonight was to drive me wild. And he succeeded. But in the end he failed. I suppose he was hoping I would kill John, unable to control myself. Then what? What would

I have done if I had killed John? The answer is simple: I would have lost myself to the monster in me.

And suddenly I understand Jim's goal.

He wants to push me over the edge.

He wants to watch me fall.

* * *

><p>THANK YOU everyone for the awesome reviews! I am SO grateful you enjoy my story! I am having SO much fun writing it! I would love to hear more of your thoughts, opinions, predictions, and suggestions! I won't be able to update on friday, but I will try on saturday! So this chapter is for the start of your weekend, I hope you have a great one! :D<p>

Reviews would make my day. (:

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	8. Eight

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| A Vampire AU. I know it's been done, but I had too.

* * *

><p>John is lighter than I first imagined.<p>

He fits snug in my arms, his shorter frame bent perfectly with the bends of my arms. His head is nestled under my chin, his hair soft and tickling. My arms are securing him to me, and I carry him out of the

cab like this. I ignore the appalled look of the driver and kick the door shut. I feel the metal rim cave. I leave a decent sized dent. I leisurely make my way to the door to our flat; fiddling with the lock best I

can with no free hands and swing it open. It's around three now. I don't think John should return to surgery tomorrow. I carry his limp form up the steps, not bothering to skip the stairs that creak in case my

grip on John loosens. That wouldn't be a happy experience. I don't feel like traveling the extra stairs up to John's room and instead lay him gently down onto my bed. He stirs but does not wake. His skin is a

ghostly white and I can only hope that the small transfusion I gave him worked. I didn't wish to take too much of Molly's blood. The absent of blood packets and samples is troubling, more so because it's

shortage pertains in a hospital. But this only makes me wonder: How far is Jim Moriarty willing to go? I can't drink from John again, this is painfully clear. I can't change him into a vampire, my human blood

enables me that, for which I am thankful, but next time I'm not sure if I'll be able to stop. Not when I remember the sounds John had made. I pinch the wound on my hand to stop my troubling thoughts.

This is not the time. I pull the covers up to John's chin, and watch his breathing. It is slow, but not too slow. I brush the hair off his forehead, and, feeling uncharacteristically in control, I lean down and lightly

kiss his lips. They are cool and soft and taste like him, but I pull away before his scent drives me toward the edge. I am not immune to John Watson. I don't think I will ever be. I take the note from my

pocket, studying the words again.

_What is a tick without blood? _

Dead, was the simple answer. Is this a threat or a warning? It is quiet in the flat so I am slightly surprised and immensely wary by the knock on the door. No one comes to visit Baker Street. No one human

anyway, and it's obvious by the smell of blood and lilies that our early morning visitor is not human. I walk into the main, glancing wistfully back at John before turning to the windows. The sky is still dark.

The sun won't rise for at least three more hours. I am safe on that front. I make my way down the stair. I stride cautiously toward the door. I hesitate before opening it. I am not at all surprised by who I find.

Jim Moriarty looks exactly the same.

Dark hair, slick back and thin. Small dark eyes, his body posture carrying a permanent air of smug triumph. I don't bother with formalities.

"The stunt you pulled tonight was dangerous." I say, my voice cold and calculating. I stand a ways back from the doorway. Jim's grin widens. "Why did you come back?" He fumbles dazed with his tie

before narrowing his eyes and looking at every corner of the wooden doorframe. His eyes are glistening. I see his fangs peek through his thin lips. They're stained red. They're sharper than mine.

"You're not even going to invite an old friend in?" He purrs, his voice like velvet dancing with rot. I don't answer. But I don't invite him in. His body is leaning forward, like the promise of coming inside

is drawing him in. He can't enter though. I make a mental note to inform Ms. Hudson of dangerous strangers. She would let Jim in. Without a second thought. I am suddenly paranoid by this possibility.

"You've changed, Sherlock darling." Jim is saying and I snap out of my reverie. He is staring intently at me, his eyes boring into my very mind. I feel a shiver go down my spine. I hate his eyes. He

contines in a drawn out tone: "You've become ordinary since I last saw you. Where's the beast who tore all those people to shreds? You do remember don't you? I bet there blood's still caked under your

nails. So why put on the boring, Englishman look? Why keep the monster caged?" His eyes roam over my body and he shakes his head, a slight frown forming on his features. "You were so delicious back

then…" When I remain silent he seems to grow agitated, his voice dropping dangerously low. He speaks now in quick snarling gasps: "Is it because of that human up in your bed? I bet he tasted exquisite, you

could barely contain yourself tonight!" I feel the stirrings of anger grow in me. I try to remain indifferent. But then I hear his voice again.

"Do you want to fuck him, Sherlock darling?" I flinch at the vulgar phrasing, my teeth grinding against my lips. "Do you want to claim every inch of his breakable skin? Do you want him to scream

your name until his throat bleeds?" My grip tightens on the doorframe. I am so close to him, so close, I could easily crush his throat. But then the truth on the situation is upon me and I am floored. He

wants me to touch him, to hurt him, to pull him inside, because then he would win. He would make my true emotions come out. And I know that if I let him inside my mind he would make me shatter. My

last bit of weak resolve would crumble. I can't help the snarl that graces my lips.

"I will stop you." He smiles a smile that even the Cheshire cat would envy.

"No you won't." And he licks his lips, his tongue smoothing the outside of his teeth, of his fangs. "I'll wake you up again, Sherlock dear, and then we'll play." And he is gone before I can retaliate. I

panic then, slamming the door shut and rushing upstairs, checking on John as if on instinct. He is perfect, asleep and unbothered. I let myself calm. I don't know what impulse I have but I curl myself up on

the bed besides John. I feel the simplicity of his warmth. How I can feel my heart slow and my brain relax just by listening to the sound of his breaths. I feel as though I can lay here forever. And I do, or at

least until the sun comes up, at which point I close the door and burrow deep under the covers. But John is still here, still lying beside me and I try to convince myself that I take his hand because I still feel

the need to make sure he's okay.

But the real reason is because I'm scared.

* * *

><p>Happy St. Patrick's Day! :D A short chapter, I know, I apologize. Homework is wanting to dominate my free time now.<p>

I hope to write more tomorrow, but if I can't I'll try on monday! I really love digging deep into the vulnerability of Sherlock, he's so adorable. But we've had enough calm I feel, so it's time to shake things up a bit. Like vampire fights, and possession, and total sexual abandon. Yes. I think those things need to come forth. ;)

Reviews would make my day. (:

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	9. Nine

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| A Vampire AU. I know it's been done, but I had too.

* * *

><p>I wake up to John still soundly sleeping. Our fingers are still deathly intertwined. I pull away and roll out of bed. I had been getting a lot of sleep lately; it feels strange how awake my body is. I'm not hungry.<p>

Carefully I creep across the room and open the door. I will always be grateful to London for its many rainy days. The blinds are closed, but I feel more confident about moving around. I see Ms. Hudson first;

warn her not to invite anyone she doesn't know inside. She didn't need must persuading. She had heard about the murders. Two more, apparently, last night. What was Jim hoping to accomplish with all of

these killings? I don't bother to linger on that thought long. Lestrade rings at around twelve. He gives me a small slip of paper, informs me about the murders, same as always only more spread out, and

leaves. This note contains another sloppy riddle: Grey carved in generations.

I spend the next minute putting the pieces together.

The tick riddle meant death.

The grey could resemble stone, the generation's families. Tombstones. There was a small graveyard across town, it was known for its old relics. Perhaps Jim was trying to lead me there? I have half the mind

to risk going outside but decide against it. Moriarty can't go outside even when the sun is hidden. There would be no point. I study the papers again. Has he dated it? A certain time to meet? I can only wait

for tonight. John stirs around four. I help him sit up and give him the basil soup Ms. Hudson prepared. He eats it all. I can't help lingering by the side of my bed. He looks up at me, concern lacing throughout

his features. Wordlessly, he asks me what's wrong. I take a deep aching breath and tell him:

"I almost killed you." It takes John a moment but he scoffs, sitting up fuller against my headboard.

"I'm still alive, aren't I?" His voice sounds clumsy but rested.

"That's not the point, John." His eyes harden slightly and he turns so he can face me fully. His legs dangle off the side of my bed, the covers pushed roughly aside. His smell still makes me dizzy. I think it always will.

"Then what is the point, Sherlock?" He has grown defensive. But so have I.

"That I lost control and nearly killed my only friend." John studies me for a moment before his eyes soften considerably.

"But you stopped, Sherlock. You had the sense to stop."

"What I did-what you offered, it can't happen again. Next time I may not have the will to stop."

"What I did stopped you from going insane." John retorts, and I can feel my irritation rising. Does he not see how much danger he was in? Does he not understand that he almost died? I try to keep my voice even.

"It won't happen again." I want John to say yes. I want him to nod his head. I want him to agree with me. But John doesn't do any of the things I want him to do. Instead he simply says:

"You're shaking." I am slightly alarmed. I hold my hand to my eyes. Ah. A disgusted smile spreads slowly across my face.

"My body always ends up portraying me." I whisper, and am surprised when John takes my hand in his. I feel my heart stop. His fingers intertwine with mine, just as I had done last night. His touch

sends a jolt of heat to my stomach, to my nerves.

"What are you afraid of, Sherlock?" I feel myself growing closer to John; I can see every detail in his eyes, every speck of color. They are beautiful. He is gorgeous. I decide to be honest.

"Loosing you." I whisper, and I can feel his breath sputter against my chin. I don't know if he leans up or I down but I am kissing John Watson before I can even form a coherent thought. It is

amazing how such a simple action can turn me into such a mess. I feel desperate, I feel as though my whole body is aching. I have never in my life experienced such euphoric bliss. John makes a noise in the

back of his throat, a quiet whimper and the sound goes straight to my groin. I am pushing him down before I am aware, gently resting him over the crumpled duvet before hovering over him. Our lips remain

connected, only mine begin to part slightly and John's tongue is in my mouth before I can react. I can't help but moan. I can only taste John; he is capturing my every thought, blowing every sense of reason

away. I push my own tongue against his and his hands come up and intertwine themselves desperately in my hair. He is pulling me impossibly close and my own hands are moving up under his shirt, his skin

hot and smooth beneath my touch. He arches into me, and the friction that brings leaves me a growling heated mess. He tears away with a groan because-yes I had forgotten-humans have to breathe. I let

my own lips travel the length of his jaw; my tongue traces the shell of his ear before I give it a playful bite. John's hold on me tightens, his legs come up and wrap securely around my waist, dragging me

down and grinding against me. I bury my face in his shoulder to muffle the strangled whine that threatens to escape me. I can hear his heart beating furiously and I am vaguely aware that it is faster than it

needs to be. I suddenly remember John's predicament. I lean up and capture his lips once more, a tantalizing lingering kiss, before pulling gently away and untangling myself from him. I wish I hadn't. His

skin is flushed with his growing arousal, his pupils are blown and he has grown hard and persistent against my thigh. His eyes are hurt. His grip on me loosens and his hands fall to my shoulders, to my arms.

I smile softly, reaching up a hand and brushing the hair off his forehead.

"You just lost a lot of blood, we wouldn't want you to go into cardiac arrest, now would we?"

"I don't care." John groans leaning up on his elbows and locking his mouth to my jaw. My breath hitches in my throat. I can feel the familiar stirrings of hunger dawn on me. But his tongue is so

perfect against my heated skin, his mouth so talented…no. I cannot loose it again. I grip his arms, attempt to push him away, but my resolve is wavering as he moves his tongue and teeth and lips to my

neck. I can't help the whimper, the arch of my back. I feel so strange. The heat in my stomach is building and I can feel my eyes flutter closed.

"J-John…" It's all I manage to gasp out before he begins to suck, just under my ear. I give a startled gasp and pull him closer; the smile on his face is evident. Then John does something I would never

have expected. He bites me. And I can't place the sound that erupts from me. Dazed I tilt my head to the side, allowing him further access. His teeth scrape my skin. It hurts in the most delicious of ways!

His mouth is hot and his teeth leave red on my skin. My whole body has exploded in goose bumps and my breaths are becoming gasps. But then John is pulling away, all too soon, and I know I must look like

an aroused animal. I am too far-gone to care. I can't even think. John smiles at me and licks his lips, something that makes me grow even harder against my restraining trousers. John plants a chaste kiss to

my lips before falling back against my headboard.

"I'll rest then, Sherlock. You're right…I don't want have a heart attack." And he gives me a wink before rolling over so his back is to me. I stare at his now sleeping form, disbelief etched across my

features. Disbelief and amused bewilderment. I can't help but laugh.

"John Watson, you are brilliant."

* * *

><p>It is around six when the black car pulls up outside our flat on Baker Street. I am in no mood to see my brother. John is still asleep, his arm draped across my chest as if to hold me to him. I kiss him<p>

before I leave. The car drives along the cloudy streets of London and I let my gaze wander out the window. I spot a small graveyard peeking through an opening in an alleyway. I feel a chill go up my spine. I'll

go there tonight. I'll go there after Mycroft is done whining. The driver this time is a young woman. Her perfume is suffocating. She gives me a salacious smile before I exit the vehicle. She is dressed in black

tight fitting clothes. She has a tattoo of an upside down cross beneath her ear. An alcoholic Satanist. I leave the car with a cold air. Mycroft's tastes never ceases to amaze me. My brother is where he was the

last time we talked. It feels like months since I've been in this room, and if I think about it it probably has been. His expression is unreadable. I don't bother to sit. There is a fire in the hearth again, but it's

not as warm as the fire John made for me.

"You drank John Watson's blood." It wasn't a question so I didn't answer. Mycroft's hands twitch on the arms of his chair, his nails picking at the satin material. He is contemplating something. "It is

dangerous to become attached to a mortal, Sherlock. They are so weak. They become closer to death each day."

"What do you want, Mycroft?" I ask and my voice is steady and cold. He is silent for a while. When he speaks there is something hidden under the passive tone of his voice.

"Jim Moriarty wants me to give you a message. A riddle." My confusion spikes.

"You're in touch with Moriarty?"

"He felt the need that I should be the one to tell you this." There is a fear building in my heart, a cold prickle. If he needed a messenger why Mycroft? And why a messenger? "A spider a day keeps the

doctor away." All I can see is red. I have Mycroft by the throat in an instant. This is the first time I have seen my brother look surprised.

"What the fuck are you playing at?" I hiss, my nails dig into his skin; draw up red welts of blood. He flinches but holds my gaze. His silence is infuriating. Then everything falls together. Jim knew

about John. "You told him." I whisper and my voice has dropped dangerously low. "You told him about John." My brother is silent. "You eliminated the blood packets at St. Bart's." My eyes flash, I feel a

pulsating rage building throughout me and Mycroft tries to pry away my tightening hold from around his neck. "Why?" I roar, and Mycroft's neck now sports a deep gash, his blood stains my head metallic

red.

"You've gotten weak, Sherlock." He groans and I fling him from me in betrayed disgust. He smashes against the nearby wall; the wood splintering and I don't wait to see if he regains his footing. He

was distracting me, distracting me while Moriarty-But he can't get in. No one could invite him in. No one except John, John who has been kept blissfully unaware. I curse my own arrogance. My own stupidity.

I am in the flat within seconds. The door is cracked, busted and the carpet's overturned. I can hear Ms. Hudson downstairs, scurrying about, explaining how a man came and asked to be let in. Said he was a

patient of John's. I am beyond myself with rage. I ignore our landlady and tear the door to my room open.

John is not in my bed.

John is gone, and only blood lays were he used to be.

* * *

><p>If anyone knows how to upload a story to deviant art I would love their help on that! I can't seem to figure it out…<p>

Reviews would make my day. (:

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	10. Ten

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| A Vampire AU. I know it's been done, but I had too.

* * *

><p>I can't think. For the first time in my life I am overwrought with unprecedented fear.<p>

Breathing has become tedious.

My legs feel like rubber as I approach my bed. John. With shaking fingers I feel the blood

stained into the satin sheets. It's still warm, warm and fresh and _oh_ so John's. Ms. Hudson is behind me, teetering about and holding back hiccupping sobs. "I'm so sorry Sherlock, I'm so sorry, Sherlock…"

She kept repeating it like it was the only word she knew. I don't move for a while. There isn't much blood, most likely John struggled and the wound on his neck reopened. It is then that a chilling shred of

doubt creeps into me: Did Moriarty bite John? Could he have sucked him dry? Would doing that drive me over the edge? I feel sick. But I turn and swiftly leave the room, head to the door of our flat. Ms.

Hudson grabs my arm, her nails tickling the fabric of my coat. I stop to humor her. I can't loose anymore time than I already have.

"What?" I bark, and she flinches some under my surly tone.

"He-He told me to tell you something." She whispered and I can't help the anger bubbling inside of me. He already left a message, why leave two? Just to rub it in? "One mind can speak for two." I

am racing down the stairs before she can finish. I tear the door open, I am sure I have shattered its hold on its hinges but I don't have the mind to check as I race down the street. There are too many

people; I can hear all their hearts beating in unison. It is an unnerving feeling. I get a cab. The moon is full and piercing, like a glowing glass orb in the sky and I flee from the taxi as soon as I am able. The

graveyard is bigger than I imagined. I have to scale a fifteen-foot iron wrung gate to get inside. Circling the perimeter is a ten-foot stonewall, and the night guard has fallen asleep leisurely at his post. No, not

asleep. I inch closer. Blood. Ah, he's been bit. His breathing is shallow. I ignore him for the moment. He is not important. I walk deeper, the tombstones old and moss worn green. I hate the sight of them.

They make my head give a dulling ache. Memories. I had forgotten about them. I can smell John. No matter how strange it sounds I can smell him, his sweet scent, his metallic washed blood. I am running. I

jump over tombstones, diminutive barriers in my way. He's close I can feel it. I duck under a spruce tree, and stumble to halt. My heart is racing. My eyes are dilated. All the feelings that have been bubbling

inside me seem to disappear completely upon seeing John. I feel nothing but relief. He is laying in an opening in the graves, laid gently on soft grass and gentle mud. I rush to him. His whole body is shaking,

trembling as though he is freezing. I can feel the panic start up again. I swallow the lump in my throat.

"John?" My voice sounds so hollow. I reach up a hand, cupping his cold cheek, trying desperately to warm it with my skin. I study his features. He is breathing at least. His lips are pale, everything

about him is pale, and there is a red stain to the skin of his mouth. I feel my heart freeze, a cold sweat breaking across me. I look closer. The blood on John is not his. It's someone else's. I part his lips. The

red stains his teeth.

"John." He doesn't stir.

"John." But I have to check.

"John!" I have to make sure…

"John!" Moriarty wouldn't go this far would he?

"John!" Because if he did…

"JOHN!" I would definitely be pushed over the edge.

John's eyes flutter. I can barely hold in my sigh of relief. I brush the hair from his eyes as he slowly comes to, his gaze landing on me. And I fall back as though his sight has burned me.

John's eyes are completely black. His beautiful blue is ebony, the whites of his eyes no better. I can't place the emotion I am feeling. John doesn't see me, because Moriarty went that extra length. He

went too far.

_ "One mind can speak for two." _

Moriarty is in control of John.

John does not recognize me. And as he struggles to stand I find myself to frozen with unparalleled shock to move.

"My, my, to think you have gotten so soft, Sherlock." I didn't see him appear. But Jim is standing behind John, his arms slowly wrap themselves around his waist, and I am overwhelmed by my primal rage.

He is touching _my_ John.

With a strangled growl I am on my feet, stalking steadily closer. Moriarty just smiles, his nails scraping up and under John's dirtied shirt. John's black eyes stare blankly ahead.

"Johnny-boy," Moriarty coos, his mouth too close to the shell of John's ear, "Kill him for me will you?" I don't see where Jim pulls the stake from; my vision is too clouded with disgust to see the

miniscule details. But John takes the wooden point from Moriarty's left hand and I still in my walk by the intense pain exploding behind my eyes. I fall to my knees in a blinded fit of pain, just able to make out

John's blurry form walking towards me. And now I remember.

This is how I turned.

This is where I was cursed.

All my memories come flooding back in a violent rush.

I almost don't see John standing before me, stake raised. But he has my full attention once the wooden point cuts across my chest. A thought flitters through my mind: John will kill me.

And I can't hurt him.

The cut of the stake is burning. I am almost certain a splinter has stuck itself into the wound on my shoulder. It itches against the pain.

My head is still throbbing.

I'm dizzy as I jump back, swaying some on my feet. John is like a wind up doll, he goes where Moriarty's eyes follow. I watch his movements. I have to find an opening. If I can land one solid blow I can knock

him out. I don't have to hurt him. I won't play into Jim's game. But it is becoming difficult to keep my composure as John lands another blow, deeper this time, on the side of my face. The weight of it causes

me to twist back, my back cracking against the head of a cold tombstone. I spit the blood from my mouth. This is becoming tedious. And John, what is he feeling now? Can he see what he's doing? It is this

though that causes me to rush toward Moriarty; I don't care if John slices open my back. It's Moriarty I want. It's Moriarty I need to kill. Because in the past I had failed. John's steps falter behind me as I lash

out to Moriarty, who catches my arm with ease. It's almost pathetic how weak I am. He gives a sharp twist and pulls me in closer, the bloody smell of his breath itches across my face. Blood has gotten into

my left eye. I can't see. My hands take Moriarty by the throat and I am yelling something, I know I am but I can't hear myself over the constant ringing in my ears. But I can tell when Moriarty's eyes go out

of focus. And that's when the wooden point jars me back again. I am running on impulse now, the sheer will to kill Moriarty, and I am blinded by this instinct as I lash fruitlessly out behind me.

I catch John in the face with my blow.

He falls back, his head hitting the ground and I hear something crack. My mind clears with that sound. Moriarty breaks my hold on him with a teetering laugh and I am sent flying back, my side connected

with the bark of the spruce tree and shattering some of the trunk on impact. I slide to the ground like a rag doll. I am still disoriented and try to stand with a snarl but something is holding me back, pushing

me into the muddy ground. My eyes focus on John, whose head is bleeding profusely and whose grip on the stake is tight. He is aiming for my heart. I can't seem to process that information. I am only

focused on the gash in this head, and the reality of the situation that I was the one who did that. I broke open John's head.

I am killing John.

"Let's finish this, Johnny-boy, the sun's gonna be up soooon~!" I hear Moriarty call out over the tops of the graves and I feel something wet hit my cheek. At first I think it's blood but as my eyes turn

up to John's face I know it's not. John is crying. The tears slip through his black eyes like a surreal painting and my heart clenches at the sight. John…he has been seeing everything this whole time. Feeling it

too. And in a fit of rage my hand collides with the back of John's neck. He stiffens and as his eyes droop close I see a gleam of the blue I love. The stake falls from John's flaccid grip and I take it up in my

hands. Gingerly I lean him against the shattered spruce tree and turn to Moriarty. He is smiling, hands in his pockets and he is regarding the sight with sad eyes.

"You always manage to ruin the fun, Sherlock dear." His voice takes on an almost motherly tone. I snarl and stalk forward, the anger in me almost unbearable.

"You could've killed him." I hiss, my breath a dark warning in the morning breeze. Jim shifts on his feet, smile growing wider.

"Are you going to kill me? Honestly, you are being so boring today!"

"This isn't a game."

"Isn't it?" I don't respond. It's impossible to reason with a madman. Instead I opt for raising the stake, now standing directly before Moriarty. He just laughs.

"You're a bit too late, darling." And we both still as the sun touches our skin.

* * *

><p>Welp sorry for the wait. Art homework and projects and whatnot. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! (: Hope to update soon! I would love to hear your thoughts!<p>

Reviews would make my day. (:

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	11. Eleven

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| A Vampire AU. I know it's been done, but I had too.

* * *

><p>Moriarty burns immediately. The skin of his face bursts black and turns to ash instantly but he's gone before the full shaft of light can cover him. Unfortunately, it gets my hand, and as I burn slower<p>

my skin still fries. It smells revolting. I give a strangled cry and jump back, ducking under the shadows of the walls and surveying the area around me. It's a dim light, the sun not fully raised. I have time. No,

I glance to John, whose head is still bleeding and body still limp **we** have time.

I rush to him.

My arms scoop themselves under his knees and around his shoulders before I pull him tight to my chest and dash for the exit of the cemetery. I can feel his heart beating, rapidly a startling pace, and

I know as I feel his face against my chest that he can hear mine as well. Unconsciously he says my name. And I try not to stumble in my flight. I run past the security guard, who has just begun to stir, and

his eyes are bloodshot and hungry. His mouth parts to reveal two pearl teeth. He rises but the sun trickles in through the glass windows around him. He explodes in a burst of blood and ash. I duck down into

the shade again, desperately trying to outmatch the sun. Why couldn't today be cloudy, full of rain and wind and clouds? Why sunny? Why clear? I should've killed Jim when I had the chance. I should've just

ripped his head off. That would've done it. I curse my own hesitation. I suddenly realize that I can't make it back to the flat. There's no time. So I run to the nearest flat: Molly's.

I hold John tighter to me as I pick up speed, the houses and apartments and cafes all rushing by in a blended colored blur. I rush into the entrance of Molly's flat, the front hall and don't waste

anytime in making my way up the stairs. I distantly remember her telling me about her new place. 304. I'm now grateful for somewhat listening. I knock and wait. I hear her stumbling around; obviously

confused because she doesn't have many friends, and when I say her name she trips over something. I'm guessing her bedside table. Or the rug in the hall.

When she opens the door I push drastically past her, look for her couch and gently lay John down onto it. I ignore her bewildered gaze and tense slightly as she rushes to John, but still pull out my

phone and call for an ambulance. Molly rushes to the kitchen and gets a wet rag, laying it gingerly over John's gash before sending me the most worrisome expression.

"What happened?" She whispers and I don't feel like talking. So instead I lean against the wall and watch her drawn blinds as the sun begins to seep through. In fifteen minutes there's a knock on

Molly's door and due to the sun I am forced to withdraw into the bathroom. I see the men carry John down in a stretcher and I wish for nothing more than to follow. But I can't. The sun is making absolute

sure of that.

* * *

><p>I spend most of my day trying to sleep in Molly's room. When I had proposed the idea she had turned the most vivid shade of crimson and had spurted out something that I assumed meant, "okay".<p>

But I was becoming thirsty. There were still no blood packets at the hospital, and I wonder how much Mycroft paid them to keep it that way. Conniving bastard. I hate him. I roll to my side in her bed, the

covers soft. Her room is small, a lot smaller than mine. I feel a tiny seed of guilt stirring within me.

Molly Hooper seems very lonely.

I try not to dwell on this thought. Guilt is not the feeling I want to experience at the moment. The thirst is almost unbearable by four and I cautiously leave Molly's room. The sun is hidden under a

thick blanketing of clouds. I lay down on Molly's couch, willing my hunger to evaporate. I am in no mood to deal with it now, and the thought of no blood on hand nearly sends me in hysterics. But I want to

see John, and as soon as it is safe to leave I will. Unless he's in critical care…no. His wound was fatal enough for that, and I repeat that thought in my head at least ten times before Molly gets home. It's

almost as though she has forgotten my pressing presence and she stutters about for a while before suggesting tea. I shake my head. I need nothing but blood. Molly sits herself in a small chair across from

me as she waits for the water to boil. I decide the ceiling will hold my attention for a moment. But she speaks and I turn my head to listen.

"You're hungry." She whispers and my eyes narrow at her observation.

"What makes you say that?" She licks her lips before continuing.

"Your skin's very pale, um, you're tense, you're eyes are nearly black-"

"Yes, alright." She's silent for a while; just fidgeting in her chair before her big brown eyes turn up to me.

"You can have me." She croaks and I can sense a layer of jealousy in her tone. I wave off her offer with my hand, but she catches it in hers and holds my hand in both of hers.

"Please, Sherlock." She pleads, her eyes sincere and her heart racing. "Please."

"Molly-" I say warningly, because I truly am hungry and if she keeps this up…

"I want you to, Sherlock." I study her face and she is almost crying, her expression is one of sheer desperation. "Please." She whispers again and I groan in surrender before taking up her hand and

bringing her thin wrist to my mouth. I considered her neck but that seems too intimate, and I it makes me feel as though I'm betraying John in some way. So her wrist will do. I hesitate before biting down. A

flicker of disappointment crosses her but the sharp pain overwhelms it and she flinches. Her blood is light, she carries just a tad too much iron but I swallow it down and feel it coil warm in the pit of my

stomach. She gives a breathy little gasp of pain and I suck a bit harder, her heart rate escalating immensely. After a moment I release my grip on her, and a moment more my mouth follows, my fangs

drawing themselves away from her wrist. Molly stares at me for a moment, one of true shocked silence, before she rushes into the bathroom to clean up. I sigh and lean back into the couch cushions. Her

distasteful blood makes me want John's even more. I am aching for the sweet fullness of the doctor's but I shove these thoughts away with disgust. This really isn't the time. At six I call to Molly my thanks

and disappear out the front door, eager now to get out now that the sun is gone.

The night is cool. It will be raining soon. I get a cab and ride to St. Bart's. Two nurses direct me in the general direction of John's room. The halls are crowded, and I find myself walking against the

wall to stay out of the way. In the distance I can hear the rumbling of thunder. As I approach John's door I freeze, my hand hesitating over the doorknob. There is someone else in there. I don't smell any

blood or lilies so I open the door with exceeded caution. John is asleep, barely because I see him stir, and in the corner seated in one of the hard hospital chairs is Mycroft.

* * *

><p>SO sorry for the short chapter, the next one will be longer, I PROMISE! All these reviews are wonderful! I am so happy right now! :'D I would love to hear what anyone wishes to see, if a suggestion works in with the plot I have planned out then maybe I'll add it in! (: Have a great day, thanks so much for reviewing!<p>

Reviews would make my day. (:

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	12. Twelve

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| A Vampire AU. I know it's been done, but I had too.

* * *

><p>My first though is to throw him out the window.<p>

The second is to break his neck until his bones twist, and the third is to try and control myself under an emotionless veil. For obvious reasons I choose the latter. Mycroft's dark eyes dart up to me and

then back to John, who is still lying pale and and sleep deep in the sea of thin white hospital sheets. I make a mental note to bring him a better blanket later on tonight. With a tap of his umbrella Mycroft

stands, and, walking past me gently closes the door. The commotion out in the hall becomes a muffled buzz of quiet noise. I don't move out of his way and I can feel his irritation roll off of him in waves. My

eyes don't leave him. I account for his every move.

"What are you doing here?" I ask finally and Mycroft returns to the uncomfortable hospital seat before answering. When he does he's studying the dark city outside the small square windows.

"He needed a blood transfusion." His head tilts in John's immobile direction. I remain cold. I try not to feel much of anything. It's working better than I expected. Somewhere in the distance a siren wails.

"So why are you here?" Mycroft sends me a glance, his eyes loaded with unspoken words. I find myself moving unconsciously to John's side, staring down at the IV in his arm. I did this. I caused John to be

here tonight. This is my fault. I cannot express the overwhelming guilt I feel.

"I returned the blood to the hospitals. Jim Moriarty has become weak, I found no reason to listen to his ravings." I breathe. In and out. Don't attack- just breathe.

"You're the weak one here, Mycroft." I hiss and he stiffens in his chair. There is a span of tense silence before Mycroft stands. He walks to the door but doesn't open it.

"Have you remembered, Sherlock?" I raise my hand and let my fingers play with the veins on the top of John's hand. His blood account seems to be stabilizing. How much did he loose? The feel of the good

doctor's hand keeps me calm and I am thankful that my voice doesn't catch.

"Some." I respond and I don't dare to look at Mycroft.

"What do you recall?" He presses and I breathe in a deep inhale of hospital air.

"The people I killed. In Dublin. Human memories before I was cursed…" I turn my head to Mycroft then and I know my eyes portray me. I am so afraid. "Why is it, Mycroft, that you took a weak,

broken human under your wing just to let me loose half my soul?" When he doesn't answer I continue: "I can hear his voice, Mycroft, the demon inside of me. He's always there." My brother's gaze remains

steady as he turns to face me fully. He raises his head some, looking down at me through the bend in his nose.

"You were interesting…for a while. And I-"

"Was lonely." I finish for him. He nods. Mycroft seems to be contemplating something before he steps closer eyes flickering to John.

"He's weakened the demon in you." He states, and I don't bother to speak. I just continue tracing the lines of John's hand. "Sherlock, I am not sure if this curse can be reversed, but you know what

you must do, don't you?" My throat tightens, catches raw and I have to swallow twice to be able to speak.

"I have to kill Moriarty, and…" My eyes glance to John's face. He looks so broken amid all the IV's and white sterile bandages still stained slightly with blood. I feel like I'm going to throw up. "I have to leave."

Mycroft sniffs and sighs, a hand coming up and running through his hair.

"I ran you to him. I am sorry." I'm shocked by Mycroft's apology and I turn to give him a stare as he prepares for the door again.

"I still want to kill you." I whisper, but my voice just sounds hopelessly hollow.

"I know." He humors, his hand hesitating on the door's small knob. He twists and opens it up, the noise in the hallway drifting heavily back in. Before he leaves fully he stops. "Fix this, Sherlock." He says,

"The other's are becoming worried." His words carry an immense threat, and only when the door to John's room clicks shut do I let myself fall to my knees. I take John's limp hand in both of mine, and I rest

my forehead against his smooth skin. I will myself to stay strong, if not for me than for John, but I can't handle these overwhelming insights of horrific _feelings_.

"I am sorry, John. I am so sorry." And I'm not only apologizing for what I have done, but for what I'm about to do, for what I have to do. I can't stay with him. I was stupid to think I could, stupid to

believe that for once in my life I was allowed some small inkling of happiness. But the universe doesn't work that way. It never has, and it never will. I feel John's hand tighten around my own and I snap my

head up, surprised to see John's glassy blue eyes staring down at me. He's smiling softly, and he looks unbelievably tired but I don't hesitate to rise up and plant a deep lingering kiss to his chapped lips. He

returns it weakly, his hand still tangled in my fingers. His other hand tries to come up but the IV tugs sharply and he lets it fall down again on the hospital mattress. I pull away when his heart beat spikes. I

try to memorize his face, the lines of his forehead, the dip of his chin, the swell of his cheeks, the thickness of his neck. I will miss him.

I am crying.

For the first time in my life I am crying, and the tears trickle down the rise of my cheekbones and with mocking accuracy hit John's cheeks. His face is overridden with concern and he leans himself up to lay

small light kisses under my eyes, wiping my tears away with his lips. But this just makes it all the more worse. I suddenly don't bother to care about how weak I must look, or how foolish, or so utterly

_human_, the feelings of relief, anxiety, depression, grief, **love** all weigh down on me like a thousand pound weight. I fall into John, my face buried between the junction of his shoulder and neck, and his left

arm comes up around me. He can't really move his other hand so he just murmurs soft comforts into my ear, his breath tickling my hair. I try to memorize his voice, the gentle caring of it. I will miss him. I

will miss him. I will miss him.

"John…" I gurgle, my strangled voice muffled slightly by his hospital frock. "John." I say his name over and over and over again, relishing in the way it rolls off my tongue. "Forgive me, John." I repeat this a

lot too. And he remains quiet only trying to soothe me and hold me close, and after a moment I am calm, I am collected, I am so wonderfully destroyed. Because this is the last time I will see this beautiful

man's face, hear his voice, feel his presence, his upending warmth. And that realization hurts more than I can bear. But I stop crying, I sit gently on the side of John's bed (it's too narrow to lay down beside

him or else I would) and I talk to him in a quiet drone as the night ticks on. He asks me about my past life, what it was like. I tell him I used to have a mother and I don't remember a father. I let him ask the

questions because I want to get these individual weights off my chest. And this is working.

"What was your favorite color?"

"Blue. I don't have an exact one now, I can't understand the usefulness of it."

"It's just something to have an opinion on."

"I already have too many opinions."

•••

"Were you happy as a child?"

"No."

"Why?"

"It's hard for one to find happiness when there is no joy."

•••

"Where was your favorite place to go?"

"The river. At sunrise."

"What about at sunset?"

"It feels to much like an ending. I like the sunrise."

"I do too."

•••

"Have you ever fallen in love, Sherlock?" I hesitate under the spontaneous pressure of the question. Have I? I don't answer immediately and as I'm thinking John falls asleep, holding my hand tightly

in his. I watch him for a while, just studying the rise and fall of his chest, before a nurse comes in and tells me visiting hours are over.

I lean down and kiss John Watson one last time.

I smile sadly down at him, and gently pry his hold on my hand away. His touch still makes me warm. I decide to finally answer his last question:

"Yes."

* * *

><p>So I saw The Hunger Games yesterday…all in all it was good, true to the book but there are some things in the film that just drive me crazy. The ending for one. I hated it. And I wish they had built up Katniss and Peeta's relationship a bit more. It felt rushed. I also thought that at the beginning Katniss should've been more dirty, more hollow, so that when they made her pretty for the chariot rides and the interviews that it was shocking.<p>

Reviews would make my day. (:

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	13. Thirteen

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| A Vampire AU. I know it's been done, but I had too.

* * *

><p>It is strange, I decide, walking alone. I have become so used to John's presence, to his warmth, and now that I can no longer feel any of it it's strange. It's unnatural for me. I feel alone. More alone<p>

and angry than I ever have before. I don't know where Moriarty is, I'm not sure if he is even still alive, but how else would I "fix this"? Mycroft words only ring true if Moriarty still moves. I clutch the stake

tighter in my hand. The graveyard was easy enough to slip into without the security guard. I have received at least six texts from Lestrade, something about bodies and water but I don't want to answer

them. My mind is filled with John. John. I was never good at saying goodbye. I wish I could go back and say how I truly felt, say that I loved him when he could still hear me. But I know that would have only

made matters worse. Much worse, in fact, so I keep walking. It startles me when my phone vibrates against my thigh. It is around four now. The sun will rise soon. I don't have the heart to return to the flat.

I fish my phone from my pocket and glance at the new alert. I am slightly surprised by the contents of the message but I get over the initial feeling in an instant.

_We've both run out of time. Let's end this dance now, dear. St. _Bart's_ roof? How about it? –M _

I can't go there. Not again. John's presence is still permanently there and I would be distracted. So I change locations and head to the destination I prescribed, a place where I have never seen or

known of John to go. Moriarty doesn't respond but I know he will come. I will be there, so he'll have to come. I am tired and cold as I reach the harbor, and for a moment all I can do is stare down at the

churning frozen waters. The stake feels like a foreboding dead weight in my grip, and I stare at the surface of the water, no one stares back. Alone.

"You look awful, Sherlock darling." Moriarty's voice is close, it's like daggers on my ears but I don't bother to turn around and face him. I am too busy studying the dark depths below me.

"You cursed me." I whisper after a while and I hear Moriarty shuffle a bit on the wooden planks below us. "You trapped a demon in me." It is now that I face him. He is perfectly all right. Only the skin

around the left side of his face is red, slightly purple in areas but it's there. No ash, no gaping hole. Of course. He is a pure bred; he can regenerate much faster than I. Suddenly I know I won't make it off

these wooden planks alive. I am not bothered by the thought.

"So you've remembered?" He asks, his tongue darting out like a snake and licking at his lips. "You've remembered." He repeats and I only narrow my eyes at him, my grip on the stake in my hand

tightening. Before I can move he is before me, his cold hand clutched around mine, his dark eyes burning through the light blue depths of mine. His eyes are totally black, no color remains. I feel a shiver run

down my spine and involuntarily think of John. He was afraid too, when my eyes were like Jim's. The pang in my heart hurts more than I was prepared for. Moriarty leans up, his face inches from mine, and

on the residues of his burnt skin I can see white welts, small blisters. I flinch away but his hold on my hand doesn't loosen.

"Let the monster out, Sherlock, what are you afraid of? There's nothing holding you back anymore. _Let it out_." My head gives an awful jolt of pain and I stumble some, the point of the stake digging

into the pale flesh of Moriarty's wrist.

"I guess _I_ have to wake you up, sleeping beauty."

I was unprepared.

I am not prepared.

I was never ready for this.

I didn't even have the chance to blink before Moriarty had shot down and locked his mouth with mine. I try to push him off, he tastes foul, but he manages to force open my incorporating lips and I gag as

blood rushes down my throat. It's not my blood, but his. He's making me drink his blood. The realization of his intentions sends my mind reeling and with a strangled snarl I shove him from me, disentangle

our mouths and jump back, desperately trying to spit the metallic liquid back up.

It's too late.

My head is burning, and I can't tell if I'm screaming or not as I fall to my knees, my vision growing spotty with white dots. And then my sight is covered in a type of red mist, and can't see clearly; I

can't formulate a clear thought. It feels as though there's something else in my body with me and when I stand to move it doesn't feel like I'm the one behind my actions.

Oh.

The demon's awake.

* * *

><p>I'm not sure if I should continue this story beyond this upending fight.<p>

If I was going to I'd include vampire hunters and the "others" that Mycroft keeps referring too but…I dunno. Should I keep this story going?

Reviews would make my day. (:

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	14. Fourteen

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| A Vampire AU. I know it's been done, but I had too.

* * *

><p><em>Oh<em>.

The demon's awake.

I feel free.

Free and trapped all at once. I can't think, it's impossible for me to think, and I can feel myself rushing forward, I know I have surprised him because he doesn't turn in time and my nails rake deep

across his back. The fabric rips and tears under my blow, my nails scrape a layer of his skin away. He howls like a beast, swirling around and swinging blindly. Moriarty catches me on my jaw and I am spinning

back, my feet scratching against the splintery wood of the dock. There is an exploding pain, numbing almost in its intensity. I taste blood, filling my mouth and I spit it out just in time to dodge yet another

one of his attacks. He is laughing now, mechanically, and his voice is overwhelmed with dreadful glee.

"That's it! That's it darling, that's the Sherlock I know!" I feel the snarl rip through my chest like a knife tearing through cloth and just hearing the federal sound I can make sends a shiver up my

back. My own voice echoes in my ears.

_ Control, remain in control, take control. _

I don't listen to myself. I can't, not when I don't mean to lash out again, not when my fingers hook under the base of Moriarty's eyes and tug sharply down. His blood stains my face. It stings my

eyes. I don't blink, no matter how much I want to. Because the beast in me is in control…I am not.

And that realization leaves me cold and scared. It doesn't slow me down though. I don't hesitate to lash out and take out a chunk of his neck. I feel myself smiling, an impossibly wide grin. Moriarty isn't

laughing anymore. He's in a hysterical fit between giggles and sobs, and he lands another cut across my forehead. Blood. There is so much blood, and the monster inside of me is hungry. I am hungry.

_We_ are hungry.

Moriarty is under me in an instant, my legs holding his arms in place and as I bend my body over him my blood splatters against his face. He's just smiling sadly up at me, his eyes no longer as black, instead

a light brown seeps through. I'm still lashing away at him, my hands morphing his face into disseminated patches of blood and muscle. He took John from us. He took John from us. We can't stop thinking

that, my voice and the demon's loud in my mind.

He did this to us. He trapped me. You trapped me. We are trapped in a broken shell. I feel my arms relax and I break off a plank of dry wood from my right. The stake is too far away and we can't risk

letting Moriarty go. Not when we've finally got him.

"Funny isn't it, dear? How this turns out." I raise the stake. "But I win. I made you loose control. Good luck coming back." The wood drives home. His chest compacts like a balloon. His bones are so

old they snap like twigs, his ribs cracking under my weight. He gives a wild animalistic howl, his hands scratching for purchase against the wood beneath us until his nails pop off like buttons. His mouth is

stretched impossibly wide, his skin stretched to its limit and his back arches up as torrents of blood gush from his chest and from his mouth.

I think we're laughing.

I reach up and give his neck a violent twist, his bones coiling around each other through the tearing of flesh and muscle.

Moriarty is dead.

His body decomposes under me, turning to grey ash and sinking like sand through the cracks in the floor of the dock. It takes me a moment to gather myself. My head is pounding; I feel light headed and

unbearably dizzy. I fall backwards, my head smacking violently on the pier. The monster is still fighting, still hissing at me to stand. But my body is half human; it can only endure so much. And I've lost so

much blood. There is a jarring pain in my wrist. I move it cautiously and the pain blossoms. I study the skin. Swollen and bruised. My wrist is broken. When did that happen? I give a half cough half gag as my

blood clots itself in the back of my throat. I know I have to sit up so I don't choke. But I can't find the strength, or the motivation. My vision clears of red, instead opting for turning blurred as everything

swerves sickeningly in and out of focus. I can't help but think of John. I wish I hadn't. I feel even worse. I had forgotten about the time. I black out just as the sun starts to burn at my legs.

* * *

><p>Short yes, but as stated below:<p>

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	15. Fifteen

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| A Vampire AU. I know it's been done, but I had too.

* * *

><p>I hadn't anticipated on waking up.<p>

I can't open my eyes fully; even the darkness manages to hurt. My head is pounding and my temples are throbbing. I assume the pain is bad enough that I loose grip on reality again.

* * *

><p>The second time I awake it is much longer.<p>

I can squint open my eyes, just barely, without the intensive throbbing to continue. There are voices this time, but they a slurred together in a drunken melody. I feel cold fingers and long nails on

the skin of my legs, my thighs. They carry with them an excruciating amount of hurt. I scream myself to black.

* * *

><p>I manage the third awakening.<p>

The pain I have grown used to, I no longer feel much of it. Instead I am dreadfully numb and totally hollow. I can move my head without loosing my grip.

I don't scream.

That alone is immense progress. The voices I can make out. One sounds withering and old, a woman's, human late sixties. The other is rough and male, vampire. Two other voices join them, and I know

instantly that one is Mycroft. This knowledge forces my eyes open. I try to lift up my shoulders but I am held back down. Rope? No, leather. Leather…my vision is fuzzy, I can make out shapes but nothing

else. I see gaping black holes for eyes, wide red slashes for mouths. I can only manage to see a hand clearly when it is literally in my face, prying open my eyes. I struggled against my restraints. This person's

nails are sharp, and they prick at my eyes.

"Black…almost gone. Four…sent out." What? This is the old woman speaking, I can tell that much, but I miss most of her words in the echoing heap of my hearing. I hate this. My ears feel

unbelievably clogged. The woman withdraws the pale papery hand, her fingers touching my lips. She parts them under her hold.

"Yes…beautiful…had a human with him…name was?" I am under the impression she is asking me. What's beautiful? My lips? I can feel my eyes fluttering closed. She pries them open again.

"…Human's name! What was it?" Human…what human? Her voice is becoming clearer with each second and when I try to find my voice to respond the severe rawness of my own throat enables me

this. So I just manage a pained groan. I hear her tut and scuffle around; all the other voices have died down upon my consciousness.

Suddenly her fingers are back on my mouth, forcing it open. I hear my jaw pop but don't have time to dwell on the damage as a scalding hot liquid is poured unceremoniously down my throat. I

writhe on the rough surface holding me, pulling fruitlessly against the restraints. I can't help but give a stuttering gag before she pulls away, clamping my mouth shut. I feel like I'm going to throw up.

"Don't spit. Swallow." She instructs, but at this point I don't really have the mind to listen to her. So she does what anyone would do: slams my broken head against the hard-it must be metal-metallic

slab beneath me. I gasp out in surprised pain and the rest of the hot stuff slithers like alcohol down my throat. My head is spinning again, the shapes' becoming slightly clearer and-ah, yes, that is definitely

Mycroft. My head is jerked back though, and I can make out the miniscule details of the woman's face. Her eyes are human enough, her skin is stretched across her bones like paper, and she wears no

makeup. I was right though. She is old. She is staring at me intently and I notice her hands, stained with drying blood. I try inhaling. My blood. She is covered in my blood. I try to lift myself up again but fail

as she pushes me roughly back down.

"The human you bit, what was his name?"

"Was?" I choke out, and I can't help but flinch at the roughness of my own voice. My eyes dart to Mycroft. He is staring impassively down at me; his shoulders stiff and head raised. Didn't he already

tell them about John? Oh. They don't mean John. They mean Molly. I have broken so many laws. The memories of the last week make my head pound. I try to get my bearings. And then I notice the rest. At

least three other vampires are up against the far wall, two male and one female, all staring with emotionless masks at me. I narrow my eyes under their intense scrutiny. How could I forget these welcoming

faces? These are the "others" the ones Mycroft always refers too.

Because Mycroft is an "other" as well. They are the ones who are appointed to keep vampires under control. So that we may live in civilizations without causing uprisings. They have failed, in my

opinion. They let me hurt John. Suddenly I find this to be there fault. Where were they to keep order these past days? Where the hell were they? I was doing their jobs for them. I find myself consumed with

rage. One of the male vampires, tall, blonde hair and red eyes, steps up to me, his hands dancing across my leather restraints like they are piano keys.

"You have caused so much trouble, Sherlock Holmes. Your brother can only help you for so long." I don't respond, but his fingers dance lower, off my shoulders and to the skin of my chest. I am

suddenly struck by my absence of clothes, but I have been in worse, far more humiliating situations so this doesn't particularly bother me. I am wary about this man's hand though. He's playing his fingers

across my skin like I'm an instrument.

"But you did kill Jim Moriarty for us." His eyes dart up to meet mine. They are glinting in the dim lighting. "So thank you." Again I stay silent. I want nothing more than to get off this slab of metal, to

be free of these restraints. They are staring to rub my skin red raw. All that resisting is working against me. "But you've included a human. That's really a shame." From the corner of my vision I see Mycroft

lower his head, his grip tighten on his umbrella. _A shame_…panic sinks in my veins like ice. I want this man to shut up. I want to rip his perfect mouth off his face. **Nothing** about John is _a shame_.

"Did your weak, human heart fall in love?" The vampire's tone is dripping with sadistic mockery. "Did you fall for a human?" I can feel the anger, boiling like fire in the pit of my stomach and I pull

against the leather straps. I still can't find my voice, but if I could just get my fucking hands free… "I can see why you'd want him as a toy. He has that innocent expression about him, and he is _very_

trusting." There is something behind his words; something heavily implied that causes me to spit a mixture of blood and saliva in his face.

"I'll kill you." I snarl, and even though it feels as though I have torn my throat open with these words it is wholly worth it. The vampire wipes the blood from his face with the back of his hand before

dipping down, his face inches from mine. His eyes are blazing. And when he punches me my head slams back and I can feel the gash in my forehead open up again. The world spins and blurs away. But I can

make out his last words:

"Watch yourself, Sherlock Holmes. Or I'll burn the heart out of you."

* * *

><p>DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN. And so we FINALLY meet the other "head" vampires! I miss writing about John, I really just want some JohnLock. There hasn't been that much! :C<p>

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	16. Sixteen

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| I have gotten some complaints on the spacing and I have to agree, it's annoying me too. So let me know if you like this way better! If you do I'll keep it, if you don't I won't.

* * *

><p>I don't remember what they do to me.<p>

The woman works above me a lot, pinching at my skin, sewing up my wounds, making my throat burn time and time again with that awful liquid. Occasionally one of the three vampires comes up and speaks to me. I can never hear them clearly and they always leave me more broken and bleeding than before. More work for the old woman, more writhing against the restraints for me. Mycroft seems to have slipped away long ago. But I don't get hungry in their company.

Not once.

And I think it has to do with what the woman's forcing me to swallow: her scalding concoction. They don't let me sleep; they don't let me slip into the blissful black of unconsciousness. They always rouse me awake with more pain.

Once I think they break my arm.

I remember the sound of something snapping. I heal quickly though. Always fast enough for them to break something else.

* * *

><p>I do remember one conversation.<p>

Between the girl vampire and me.

She's a lot more patient than the men; I can tell she's older even though she looks the youngest. She doesn't expect me to answer her, the way she doesn't pause between her sentences. She mentions my curse a lot. Says it's strange and unfathomable but that it's happened many times before. This in itself is worse than the previous forms of torture given me. I want to ask her if it's reversible, if I can get rid of it but I can't open my mouth wide enough to speak. I try to question her with my eyes, but she just smiles down at me and begins running her fingers through my sweat drenched hair. She does this for a while, and she's silent throughout. When she turns to stand against the far wall again I strain my hands against the thick rough leather.

I can't even scream anymore.

* * *

><p>Mycroft is silent.<p>

He doesn't say a word as he watches me rise from the cold metal table. He doesn't offer any help as I give a pained groan from the effort. My muscles feel as though they are burning, the skinned feeling in my throat causes me to gag. The restraints that had held me have left nasty wounds across my chest, hips, and thighs. My skin has been irritated to the point of rubbing apart, and I can feel some lone drops of blood trickle down my legs. I still feel dizzy. Wordlessly Mycroft throws a sheet in my direction. I don't hesitate to wrap it around my chilled body. The thin fabric doesn't offer much heat but it's better than nothing, even if crimson is already seeping through. I try standing but my legs are like rubber and I fall heavily back against the table again. The echo resounds across the small chamber.

The vampires are gone.

The old woman's blood stains the cement floor.

Apparently they got hungry. I fell nothing but disgust as I try to rise again. I only need to think of John before I'm on my feet and stumbling to the door. I can tell Mycroft's following me but I take no notice as I yank the slab of wood open. I am greeted by a cool fresh air and I let out a shaky exhale of relief. I fall into a carpeted hallway, and I desperately try to right myself again. My knees tingle with predetermined rug burn.

This is humiliating.

Mutely I feel Mycroft's hands wrap about my arms as he hauls me to my feet, and at this point my legs are shaking so badly I don't argue. The skin below my knees is an angry red, the skin delicate and just barely healed from the burns and I'm just lucky I rolled unconsciously into the water in time to escape the arms of the sun. Apparently doing so saved my life. The sheet bunches around both my feet and Mycroft's polished shoes as he leads me with ease down the long red hall.

My head suddenly feels very heavy, and I desperately want the shot the woman gave me a day ago. It made me numb and I relished the feel of it. Or lack thereof. Mycroft leads me into a large room, and I spot a small pile of clothes tucked neatly on the satin sheets of the queen bed in the centre of the room. I see my navy pea coat draped over the side of the mattress, the tears sewn up perfectly and my scarf is placed just so in the lapels of it. I leave Mycroft's grip and fling myself down onto the bed. I can't help but sigh at the absolute softness of it. It feels so much better than the hard cold metal.

"Get dressed and I'll take you to Baker Street." Mycroft's words shock me to focus and with much effort I flip my head to face him. I must look surprised because he scoffs and turns his gaze to the wallpaper on a nearby wall.

"They gave you a warning, Sherlock. They said nothing about returning you to your flat." I swallow because my throat's still burning but I manage to get a sentence out.

"Is John safe?" It takes a moment before Mycroft nods. He glances at my flaccid form to the untouched clothes at my side.

"Do you even need help getting _dressed_?" I throw a pillow at his head and he leaves. I can't describe how I feel in that moment. I don't know how long I have been held here but just a while ago I was prepared to say goodbye to Baker Street, to John. Now I am doing anything to get back. I let myself give a lazy smile before I pick up a white pressed button shirt and attempt to shrug my way into it. After three failed attempts I manage.

Each brush of fabric hurts like hell.

This is harder than I expected it to be.

* * *

><p>I fidget the whole cab ride, my knee bouncing up and down against the tops of my fingers. I can tell this annoys Mycroft to no end but maybe that's why I keep it up. I'm still angry with him. We ride in silence and when the cab pulls to a halt in front of a dark Baker Street I nearly flee the cab. But Mycroft's voice stops me.<p>

"Stay with him, Sherlock." I turn and by Mycroft's expression I know he wasn't supposed to say anything in that nature. The warning is a pressing under tone. I nod before closing the door and watch Mycroft's personal cab drive away. My legs are still uneasy as I make my way up to the flat, unlocking the front door and taking two stairs at a time. My heart is pounding; I can hear it screaming against my ribs as I hesitate at the top of the landing.

What time was it? Is John even awake? I suddenly dread opening the door and revealing myself. How long was I away? Could it be years and I just don't know it? Could John be living with someone else? These thoughts cause me to nearly ram the door down; it vibrates on its hinges as I fling myself into the familiar den. To my relief nothing has changed. There is a clattering in the kitchen, I have obviously startled John into breaking something (or knocking something over, perhaps his favorite mug with the blue stripe down the middle) and I hurry to see him.

The color drains from his face when he sees me.

His blue eyes shine wide and his hands begin to shake. He is wearing a crumpled blue collared shirt, the hospital band no longer around his wrist. I must've been gone for longer than a week. I am panting, my knees shaking, head slightly dizzy, but I manage to hold myself upright as he takes a stumbling step towards me.

"Sherlock…" That's all I need. Just his voice and I have him wrapped in my arms, my hands caressing his hair, his back, his shoulders. I want to protect and hold every inch of this man, if possible I hold him tighter to me. I breathe in the smell of him, the absolute wonderful smell that is John Watson. He feels so secure in my embrace, so very there and I can hear the familiarity of his heart beating in time with my own. His own arms have wrapped around my back, I can feel his fingers digging into my skin through the fabric of my coat.

"Where the hell have you been?" His mouth moves against the front of my shirt and his lips brush against the opening near the top, gently against the exposed diamond of my flesh. My lips part some at the gentle contact, my hold on him tightening even more with his action. He doesn't remove his mouth, only holds it firmer there, and when he begins to place light hungry kisses against my collarbone I tilt my lips down to capture his lips with mine. The warmth that spirals from my chest to the tips of my fingers sends me into a kind of tremendous bliss, one that I had forgot existed these past couple days.

I feel complete again. Whole now that I have John.

And now that I have him I will never let him go.

His hands come up, cup my face and he stands on the tips of his toes to deepen the kiss. He moans deep into my mouth as my tongue strokes his, slow delicate movements, and his taste is just as amazing as ever. My arms encircle his waist, bringing him all the more closer and when he whimpers against me I can't help the blood that rushes from my head down to my cock. I don't know when he began to push me back but he has because I am against the counter, the edge of it digging into my hips. This slight pain brings me back and I break away, licking his saliva from my bottom lip. I study his face, his eyes dilated and his cheeks flushed. He has never looked so delectable.

And I realize with a kind of heightened excitement that I am not hungry for John's blood but for him. For John. He is pressed firmly against me, and when I shift slightly our erections grind and the friction is so pleasurably sweet that I can't help myself much longer. My grip on his waist is bruising but he doesn't seem to care.

"I want you." I find myself purring, and my voice has the huskiest edge. I can feel John harden against me, and one of his hands trails down, slipping under the confines of my shirt and touching the bruised skin there. The pain of his touch on my raw flesh causes a jolt through me and John's eyes bare worriedly up into mine. Hastily he begins to discard my shirt, although his actions are fueled with a frenzied panic and I can't help but curse my own carelessness. Without the adrenaline and sudden arousal pumping through my veins I can feel the postponed effects of my aching body.

I had forgotten about my wounds.

John throws my shirt carelessly away and his eyes are wide as he takes in the utter brutality of my once flawless chest.

"God, Sherlock…" He whispers, his voice cracked with utter desperate concern. "What the hell happened?"

* * *

><p>I am not used to someone fixing me.<p>

In the past I wouldn't let anyone touch my injuries. It was just instinct that I would try and patch them up myself. But John is not anyone. And he works with steady, practical hands-doctor's hands. I try telling him the wounds will fade in a day or two but he shuts me up with "You're still human and you'll bloody well get an infection if you don't shut up and let me help". I scoffed but remained silent. The stuff he puts on my injuries don't sting, and after he bandages up each one he places a gentle loving kiss on the cleaned skin. The feeling of his lips make me shiver and when he plants one against the skin over my heart I cup his face in my hands and place my mouth delicately to his. The kiss is chaste and sweet, and so very perfect that I hold him there for a while, just relishing in the feel, trying to memorize these spots of blooming warmth. But he pulls away and kisses my nose (I apparently have a deep cut there) and continues on patching me up.

And I let him.

Because only John Watson can piece me back together again.

* * *

><p>When he helps me into bed I'm expecting him to leave. But he sheds off his blue shirt and lays down beside me, pulls me to his chest and tells me there's no rush: he's not going anywhere. His skin is warm and I press the side of my cold face against the place over his heart. Bum Bum… bum bum… bum bum…A rhythmic lullaby. I am overwhelmed with how exhausted I am. I feel protected in John's hold, with his arms wrapped tightly about me. I curl up beside him like a child but I don't care. No point worrying about my dignity at this point. I look at the mirror sitting across from us on John's dresser. I still can't see myself but I'm no longer the only one in the small reflective surface.<p>

John is there with me.

Shielding me.

I sleep with his name on my tongue.

I don't notice the eyes peering through a crack in the curtains.

* * *

><p>haha, i'm such a troll. XD But don't worry, John and Sherlock will eventually be uninterrupted. ^-^<p>

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	17. Seventeen

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| WARNING: Sex. Yup. Just for those of you out there that like to have a little heads up.

* * *

><p>I am still not hungry when I awake.<p>

The sunset is illuminating John's room, casting its orange glowing light over the wooden surfaces and crumpled duvet. The first thing I notice is the empty space beside me. I reach out with my fingers and gently touch the spot where John used to be.

It's not warm.

He must be at work. With a sigh I roll back over, relishing in the feel of soft satin sheets, cool pillows and my healed wounds. Oh. They're healed. I gingerly touch the once raw skin of my chest and a lazy smile creeps across my face as I am met with smooth pale skin instead of rough angry red. My head feels better too; I'm not terribly dizzy anymore. I sit up with a small groan, and slowly begin to peel the remaining bandages away. It stings slightly, just because the sticky fabric has been welded against my skin. I roll the now worthless things into a small ball and leisurely make my way out of John's room.

I go down the stairs with caution, last time I tried to walk I couldn't make it down a hallway, but I am able to manage the steps with ease.

Perfect.

I now want nothing more than to see John. My desire for him spikes as I think of the feel of his skin, the sounds he makes when I lick his neck, the way his body tangles itself up in mine. My cock gives a wanting throb and I sigh in slight frustration. John's not home yet. I feel like a deprived child as I sink into the confines of my leather armchair. The black material crinkles under the added weight and I curl myself up in a tight thin ball. What did that woman give me, I wonder, my toes curling off the edge, to make me so satisfied, not thirsty? And then I hear it. The slight ruffling down the foyer, scuttling footsteps with muted short heels. A door teetering open.

Mrs. Hudson is letting somebody in.

I am on my feet in an instant, suddenly thankful that John is not here and then beginning to worry the cause of his absence.

I am almost to the door when it opens for me.

He's here.

The male vampire from before stands tall in the doorway, eyes cold and calculating, blonde hair ruffled elegantly back, fingers slowly peeling white leather gloves from his spindly fingers. His eyes dart around the flat in a disgruntled demeanor, and he gives me a starved sour smile.

"Look at you," He purrs, his voice dripping with dignified pity, "Already up and about. You heal quite quickly don't you?" I am suddenly aware of my lack of clothes, my shirt still discarded somewhere in John's room, my pants rumpled and hanging low due to sleep. The vampire's eyes rake appreciatively over my disheveled body. He reaches out an uncovered hand and his black nails tickle the skin of my chest. His skin is ice cold. It's all I can do not to jolt back.

Or snap his wrist.

Avoiding would give away far too much. Best to remain apathetic. His hands come sensually up, fingers trailing the column of my neck, my jaw, before gripping my chin and tilting my head up. I jerk away, stepping back some and watching warily as he does the same.

"What are you doing here?" I snarl, my bare feet tingling on the cold wooden floorboards. He's still smiling that aggravating smile.

"Checking up on your little doctor. Seeing if he has required any new _bites_." The anger flares up in me like an erupting spark.

"I don't see how you have any part in my interactions with John." The blonde monster cocks a perfect eyebrow, his smile slowly creeping further up, and the tips of his white fangs becoming exposed.

"Warnings, Sherlock Holmes, you only get one. You've already broken a handful of our laws, the price for breaking another is you and your (he spits the next word out like it was poison) human's demise." I grit my teeth, my fangs scraping terribly over one another in my upending frustration. I then notice the wrinkles near the ending edges of his jacket, the fluid dried permanently fresh in the tailored fabric. The words that spill from my mouth next are my undoing.

"You're so worried about my interactions with mortals, yet you have two kept hidden in your room, how do you justify?" His expression contorts into one of pure inexplicable rage, his eyes glow fearfully red, and he has me by the chin again in an instant. His hold is bruising, and his breath smells like blood. But he starts to smile again, a grin this time that is filled with hateful mirth corroding around the edges.

"I'd keep an eye on your human, half-breed. No telling what can happen in the dark." And he leaves me with the deadening warning and prominent scent of blood. I know as soon as I hear the door shut we are no longer safe. I am first angry with Mrs. Hudson, and then ashamed that I hadn't considered the possibility that they would come for me so soon. If I bite John again then what? Will they kill him? Torture him? I couldn't care less what they did to me, but John…I always do this, I always hurt him but the voice inside my head says not to worry, not to care, he's just a weak human who I will watch die either by old age or at the hands of the others.

I shove the demon in me down. There is a slight pounding in my head. Soundlessly I crumble to my knees. And as I hit the floor everything falls into place, clicks on in my mind like a light switch.

I am not hungry because they don't want me to be.

They made me drink that woman's potion to sedate my hunger until it becomes too much and John's the only option I have left for staying in control. Because they know I would shatter if the demon in me were to escape, break free, and in the process I hurt John. They had planned everything from the start, every goddamn thing.

And this is our last night.

I can feel that is inevitable.

This is my last night with John before my hunger becomes too much.

My last night…our last night…what will they do? Suddenly Mycroft's words echo in my head:

_"Stay with him, Sherlock." _

Oh.

Oh no.

John.

I am properly dressed in an instant, shrugging on my coat and pulling up my scarf when the door creaks open. John's standing in the doorway, and he's watching me with a sort of exasperated expression on his face.

"Where are you-?" I don't let him finish. I cover the distance betweens us in three long strides and in an instant my hands are cupping his face up and my mouth is crushed desperately to his. He gives a startled gasp of surprise and I take that opportunity to snake my tongue into his mouth, feeling the smoothness of his teeth, the sweetness in his breath. His hands have come up and wrapped themselves viciously around my neck, pulling me down and closer than ever before.

He seems to sense the need in me, the panic bubbling in my heart that this is all we have, this one night. I keep thinking that as our kiss becomes more heated, more frantic, and my tongue can hardly muffle John's moans. I am certain Mrs. Hudson hears something. But I am too far-gone to care.

John apparently isn't, because he kicks the door shut with his foot and I have him pressed up against it before the wood even has time to shut. It slams under the newfound weight, and I slip my leg in between John's, a low growl rumbling in my chest as I feel how hot and hard he has become. He whimpers into my mouth, a sound that goes straight to my groin and my hands are fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, pushing the useless material off his broad shoulders.

I barely notice as my coat and scarf are violently thrown away. I break the kiss to let him breathe, but keep our foreheads pressed together. The arousal is pumping like alcohol through my veins and there is a tight knot of pleasant warmth in my chest. I listen to John's ragged breathing, and his blue eyes pierce bravely up into mine. His cheeks are flushed, his hair disheveled, and I absentmindedly run my hands down his toned sides, smirking as he shivers beneath my touch.

The heat that pulses from the doctor's body is intense and I slowly bring my lips down to his again.

This kiss is different from all the ones before it.

I have never known that so much could be said through so little.

My body erupts in a fire that blazes down my being and makes my lips tingle, my mind go blissfully blank. John gently tangles his fingers in my hair, his lips asking mine questions that I readily answer. His hands take their time to discard my shirt, and he rests his hands on my lower back before pulling me flush against him. We both give a strangled moan, the feeling of our bare skin touching for the first time is almost too much.

"S-Sherlock…" He murmurs against my lips and the sensation is tickling. I pull back some and try to control my breathing, my want to push John up against the wall and ravish him here until he's screaming my name is almost too great. But instead my grip on him only tightens and I listen with a pounding heart for him to say his next words. "Perhaps we should, go upstairs?" I swear for a moment my breath completely leaves me. I can feel the smile blossoming along my face and I dip down and plant a lingering kiss to his bruised lips.

"I agree. I don't believe a wall will offer much comfort." John flushes a darker shade of crimson that only turns darker as I pull him up into my arms and begin to carry him to my room.

"Sherlock! Is this really neces-?" For the second time that night I cut his sentence short. This time it's landing him on my bed and crawling over him like a crazed animal. We start were we left off, only this time there is a more deeper understanding for what we are about to do.

A deeper meaning.

I barely take time dwell on this as John slips my shirt from my shoulders, and his desire burned eyes takes in my pale chest with growing intensity. I sit up some to totally discard the annoy garment when John leans up with me, and before I can react fully his mouth has latched itself onto my neck and he has begun to suck, wildly, on my flesh. I give a trembling gasp and wind my fingers through his short sandy hair, arching uncontrollably into him as his tongue comes out and licks a hot trail from my jugular to the skin above my right nipple. A deep guttural gasping moan rips forth as he latches his lips to my nipple, rolling his tongue around the sensitive skin until it's a hard bud in his mouth.

It's getting harder and harder for me to breath as John continues his talented licking-biting-sucking-on my chest, and I can feel myself grow harder against the restraining material of my trousers.

If John continues like this…

"J-John…I…" He seems to understand and pulls away, and as the cold air hits my abused flesh I can't help the violent shiver before I reach down and palm John's own hardness in my hand. A strangled groan leaves his throat and he falls back against the pillows, his breathing becoming more and more ragged as I begin to knead, and _oh_ the sounds he can make! Just his moans are orgasmic. I can't even begin to imagine what it will feel like to be buried to the hilt inside of John's heat.

I sigh at the thought, leaning over his burning form and claiming his mouth with mine once again. His breath spurts into my mouth as I cup him firmer, and he bites my lip when I slip my hand down the waistband of his pants. I can feel his pre-cum on the tips of my fingers, his cock seemingly crying for attention. I open my eyes and take him in. Never before have I seen anything so beautiful.

"Sher…lock…" He manages to talk between his rapidly labored breathing and I still my movements at the sound of my name dripping like honey from his lips. I bite back a deep whimper as John's hands come up resting themselves on my hips and pulling me down against him. Our cocks grind together through the fabric of our pants and I bury my head into his neck to stifle my would-be humiliating sounds.

"Sherlock, I…I need you." My heart stops in the most pleasant of ways. I am burning, my whole body feels as though it's on fire and I pull back to study John's face. His eyes tell me more than words. He's dying for the pleasure, for the mindless drive. I smile softly and lean down to press a soft kiss to his cheek. Slowly, I unbutton his trousers, the zipper seemingly louder than it would normally be, and gently I roll them down his thighs and off his legs. He gives a mixed sigh as his restraints fall away, one by one. He reaches up and does the same for me, and soon we are both shed of any article of fabric. I take this moment to study him, truly study him. I take in the thick lines of his body, the white scars, the taunt muscles. I take time to kiss every piece of exposed skin. He is beautiful, and I tell him over and over again. Wordlessly, I part his legs and insert a finger into his neglected hole.

He immediately tightens, his whole body clenching down on the invasive feeling and I can't help the furious shiver that courses through me. He is tighter than I imagined, and I could come from just this. Just from John's face, which is fighting to relax itself. I slip in another finger. The results are the same; only this time a low hiss escapes his lips. I lean down so that my mouth is by his ear.

"John," I whisper, and my voice is much deeper than I expected, "Relax. I won't hurt you." He nods and, with eyes closed, searches for me. I kiss him as my fingers begin to scissor themselves inside of him. His back arches up against me, and I have to deepen the kiss to get him to lie down. It only takes a moment for me to locate his prostate, for my two groping fingers to find his spot. He gasps out when I touch it, eyes flying open and toes curling on the mattress.

"O-Oh, God, Sher-_ugh_!" He writhes under me, the most beautiful moans falling like gems from his lips. A thin layer of sweat has begun to cover him and he grips tightly onto the sheets, his fingers knotting themselves into the already wrinkled duvet.

"Sherlock-I need you now…I-I can't…any longer." I pull out my finger and position myself, trying desperately to remain in control as I push myself into John. I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out, my head dropping down onto John's shuddering shoulder. He is too perfect. He's tight and _oh_, so very hot, and I can't help the embarrassing moan that creeps from my gaping mouth.

"_God_…John!" My hips seem to have a mind of their own and I being to thrust in and out of him slowly at first, and then as I begin to slip I pick up the pace. John shifts and I hit his prostate head on. He gives a shrill cry and thrashes back his head, gasps and moans and breathy curses falling from his saliva swapped tongue. His legs come up and hook themselves around my waist, pulling me in closer and _fuck_ I am loosing it. In the back of my mind I worry about breaking the bed, it's rocking sporadically in time with my thrusts, but all thoughts fly from my mind when John's nails claw down my back and my name is sent crying from his mouth.

I crush my lips to his clumsily, feeling him tighten around me, his walls quivering with his impending orgasm. It only takes a moment before I feel him come, feel his hot seed stick to my abdomen, and the cry that he lets loose sends me tumbling blindly over the edge. For a moment my vision goes blearily white, my mind completely blank, and all I am aware of his the incredible pleasure riding like ecstasy through me. We're still for a moment; both breathing heavily and slowly I pull myself from him.

His hands come up and wrap around my shoulders, bringing my body down and holding me to his chest. For a moment I just let myself lay there, listening to his beating heart. Eventually, John's breathing returns to normal and when he glances down to look at me his eyes grow concerned.

"You're thirsty." He whispers, voice raw but gentle, and he reaches up a clammy hand to cup my cheek. I am shocked by his words. Hungry? No I'm-Oh. I am. I notice it now, the searing want burning a hole in my throat, in my mind. I am starving. My eyes must be beyond black. Guilt and the inevitable feeling of wanting to separate myself from John immediately overcome me, because if I bite him…it's over for us.

"Drink." He says gently, tilting his neck so that my parched lips brush against his offered skin. "Please, Sherlock, you need this." Perhaps it's because I can no longer think clearly, the affects of my orgasm still lingering, but for whatever reason I lean up and gingerly sink my teeth into the skin of John's neck.

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><p>Oh god, I apologize. My first time writing ANYTHING this explicit in sexual terms. If it's awful I am sorry.<p>

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	18. Eighteen

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| This song is too beautiful and it's the inspiration for all the sweet scenes between Sherlock and John. I think it fits with this chapter. .com/watch?v=r2rIm_Td2Mk You guys should go listen to it. ALSO, I recieved this wonderful review from Deli27! I couldn't reply so I will here: Thank you so much. Your review has me back into this story again. I needed that moral boost.

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><p>John is still with me when the sun is high in the air.<p>

We both have simultaneously decided that we weren't going anywhere for the day. In truth, I had no desire to fall asleep, so I kept my hold on John until he was too late to get up for the clinic anyway. He didn't seem to mind too much. The thick, heavy blinds are pulled shut over the window, and I lean my head against the skin of John's shoulder. He smells good. My eyes study his skin, the richness of it, before darting up to his neck. My fangs incisions make a lasting impression, and I reach my hand up to gently touch at the dried blood. I'm not sure how I feel. Last night I single-handedly killed any chances we may have had left when my teeth met John's skin.

I knew the risk, but John didn't.

I've kept him in the dark this whole time and that alone, his innocent unknowing, his what makes my heart ache today. So I decide to tell him about what happened to me when I left him at the hospital, I tell him about Mycroft, about the vampire with the blonde hair.

He is silent as I speak, his eyes following the movements of my lips almost hungrily, and when I choke out how I have just ruined anything that we may have had in the future he interrupts me with a searing kiss. My words fall short in a muffled "_mph_" but I don't push him away as he leans closer into me, his arm coming up and resting on the other side of my shoulder. John doesn't break the kiss as he moves himself to hover over me, and I can't help the small gasp as I feel the expanse of his bare skin flush against mine.

My heart is pounding when he pulls away. He looks deep into my eyes, so deep, that I feel the blood rush to color my cheeks. It takes me a moment before I am aware that I'm blushing. I feel so vulnerable being pressed against the bed, so submissive as I am not on top, but suddenly I find that there is a new spark of excitement, which I haven't felt before. It's stirring like honey in my chest and when John speaks I can't help the hitching of my breath.

"Sherlock, we have for as long as we want. I won't let anyone change that." I think of the statistics of John actually winning against a vampire, the odds are not in his favor, and while I'm about to voice this he shuts me up in the most shocking of ways.

"I love you." It takes me a minute to let the words process in my mind. It takes me another moment to actually let them sink in. My mouth has gone dry; my heart seems to have stopped. It's hard to breathe. The warmth that has erupted through me is intense. I study John with the most human of expressions. When I speak my voice is strangled, hoarse and shaky, but I manage.

"John-You are my life, I won't let anyone hurt you. I promise." And then John is smiling, a bright, luminous, true smile that makes me want to cry. I'm not worthy to see anything that pure. So I close my eyes and lean myself up and our kiss is so sweet and so tantalizing that I can't help but wonder if I'm dreaming.

It passes in a haze, a misty haze of pleasure and pressure and moans against skin, but when I feel John pressing against me, feel the tip of him entering, it all comes back in a violent wave of trembling emotion. I cling to him as though he is my lifeline, as though by hugging him to me everything but us will disappear. When he's inside of me it's jarring. I have never felt anything like this before, the perfect blend of pain and pleasure. But it doesn't take me long before my hips are rolling with his thrusts, before my back is arched so fully off the bed I can't help but wonder if I'll snap in half.

The pleasure building through me is intense, the heat coiling in my stomach unbearable. I never knew I could make such _embarrassing_ noises.

I bury my head into John's shoulder.

I call out his name.

He hits a spot within me that makes my head spin and my vision see stars. He is too prefect for me. But we are moving as one; so fully and so simultaneously that I can't help but think that maybe we're perfect _together_. Perhaps this is what perfection is: how he can fit so perfectly in my arms, how he can make me into such an incoherent, gasping mess.

And when we come undone it is together.

It makes my eyes sting with unshed tears.

I love John Watson.

_Me_.

This broken, tarnished soul has found something to love.

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><p>It is twilight when John forces me out of bed.<p>

Forces me to shower, forces me to get dressed.

I am exhausted, of all this stressful suspense. I am not sure if they will come for me tonight, or tomorrow, or months from now. I assume this is another little thing they do, play with your mind until you can't handle it anymore. Wordlessly I hand John a sharp stake, pointed mockingly sharp. He takes it hesitantly, remorse and sorrow apparent on every aspect of his face. I do not know what to say, so I reach out and brush my fingers along his arm. He nods slightly and takes my hand in his calloused one. For a moment we just stand. When he leans up to kiss me his lips taste salty, like tears. John sits himself down in his armchair, and I take up my violin, and we reenact the first true night of us being in the same flat together. John gets up to make a fire, but this time he doesn't comment on how cold I look, or how ill, instead he leans on his tip toes and plants a soft kiss to my cheek.

My fingers slip on the strings and I narrow my eyes at John who is situating himself in his chair once more. He's smiling up at me, the light of the fire playing off the angles of his face and I take this moment to try and memorize everything I can about him. Because I would prefer to have his face fresh in my mind instead of covered with blood.

I know in that instant that if we're up against three vampires I cannot save him. This thought causes the melody of my playing to shift, something sad, something scornful, something utterly bittersweet pours from my bow. My heart swells at the notes but I close my eyes and sway kindly to the beat.

I want John's last image of me to be a peaceful one too.

The music begins to swell and there is a noise downstairs, a shattering of wood and glass. I can almost feel the sharp break on my own knuckles it is that loud.

I don't stop playing.

I won't allow them to take this moment from us too.

My eyes flutter open and I can hear footsteps, tumbling gracefully up the narrow stairs to our flat. I hold John's gorgeous blue gaze. I don't look away. I can't, and now that we're faced with the absolute truth of the moment I find that I am not ready to let go.

I can't say goodbye.

John holds his head high, shoulders rigid, a warrior's stance. His hand tightens on the stake, a severe resolve set deep in his eyes. I walk forward but before I can lean towards him the door bursts off its hinges and our flat is filled with an overwhelming stench of blood. I am against the nearby wall before I am aware. The grip on my neck is excruciating and I desperately try to search for John. All I can see is black. I am loosing it again. Vaguely I hear my violin give a shrill cry and a twittering snap. It's John's voice that jolts me back. I can see him, just barely, over the shoulder of my attacker. A vampire is holding him as well, his neck tilted back and his veins stand rigorously outward. But he moves his mouth and speaks and the meaning behind his words are meant for me only:

"What're you afraid of, Sherlock?"

Our first kiss is brought reeling back into my mind like a dagger through the heart.

And I let go.

I let the monster out.

My only goal is to protect John. I will uphold that by whatever means necessary.

Even if I loose myself in the process.

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><p>Sorry for such late updates, school is well, bleh.<p>

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	19. Nineteen

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| Here we go. The Final Fight is just a chapter away. I hope I'm prepared to write the conclusion.

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><p>The mist is covering my mind again, the monster's voice trumpets through my ears, my throat is dry and raw, and it's that strange feeling where I'm not the only one in my body anymore. We reach up, this monster and I, and taking hold of the vampire pinning me's wrist, give a violent twist.<p>

His bones crack like twigs.

It's not that simple though, because while his hand flops loosely to the side his other one comes up and hits me across the face so hard my teeth rattle and the room spins. The pain is dallying, and I am certain it would have hurt me much more if the demon in me hadn't woken up.

I'm clear in an instant, sidestepping, raising my arm to strike the vampire's unguarded back when I'm slammed from the side. I fly back, stumbling over my leather armchair and landing with an echoing thud against the wall. I blink, clearing my vision and feeling something wet trickle leisurely down the back of my neck.

Blood.

Its scent fills my nostrils in an instant and the hunger in me rumbles like thunder. I'll drink his blood, I think, eyes narrowning in on the vampire holding me down. I'm before him in a blink of an eye, moving faster than I ever thought was capable, and before he can react his head is in my hands and is still firmly in my grip when the rest of his body crumbles to the floor like a bag of bones.

His blood sprays in my face, dying my pale skin red and I turn with slow precision.

There are three more vampires left, the one with the blonde hair and the girl, but I don't recognize the other male. The unfamiliar one is holding John. That's all I focus on. Until I hear a startling clap and my head snaps to my left. It's the light headed male, fingers slapping together in a mocking tribute of joy, and he steps over the blood that has stained into the carpet.

"So this is your true beast. Very lovely, Sherlock darling." I feel like an animal, a hunted, rageful thing, and as this vampire stalks closer I shift on the balls of my feet. Slice his throat; get John, the most convenient plan I am able to form with an unworking mind. "I don't think we've ever introduced ourselves." He keeps talking, keeps walking forward, "I'm Var. That's Pria. The one holding your toy is Conn." He smiles at the last bit, and I try to speak but my mouth isn't in the state to formulate anything other than a deep growl.

Var stoops down then, his nails creeping along the hairs of the carpet and staining his skin with his comrade's spilt blood.

"You've broken so many laws, just in a minute too. Of course that's not counting what's been going on for weeks." I swallow and find I am able to speak.

"I broke no regulations. It was Jim Moriarty -"

"I'm not talking about the basic conduct, Sherlock, I'm talking about letting a human in." Var's voice has dropped to a cold, warning hiss and I still at his words. I know I'm not supposed to drink a human's blood and keep them alive afterward, but letting a human in? In where? I remain silent. Var purses his lips before straightening up, his full height slightly daunting in this light.

Softly Pria whispers something to John. My body instinctually flinches. She's too close, and John is so dreadfully quiet. I study his features more closely; the vampire holding him has a tight grip about his arms, which are pulled firm behind his back. He doesn't look to be in too much pain but I can't help but think of his head, if his injury there has totally healed. If not the stress of the situation can't be good, and the pressure on his arms must be making his blood rate spike leading to a dizzy feeling in the mind…

My next goal is to get John out of here.

My eyes dart decidedly to Var.

This has to end now.

And it would have, I believe, if Ms. Hudson hadn't stumbled up the stairs and into the flat, her ashen face a perfect expression of absolute petrified shock. She looked to my feet, to the disfigured body, to the blood, to the three abnormally ethereal people in our living room. She doesn't even have time to scream before Var has twisted her neck. John freezes immediately, his face going completely pale and Ms. Hudson's body seems to fall in slow motion.

I have to scratch myself to snap out of the initial shock and rush to John. The male vampire holding him was easy enough to take out. I ripped out his throat in 0.23 seconds. The blood distracted him. And the others are caught frozen by the sight of red now, but when I grab John to me they seem to snap awake and lunge, both Pria and Var, at once. Pria's nails scratch long and deep down the side of my face and neck and I turn and bury John's head to my chest so Var's blow hits me instead.

It makes my mind spin and I inadvertently cough, blood speckling the inner parts of my cheeks and lip. But I don't hesitate to rush forward; John still cradled against me, and breaks out of the window.

The glass shines down like rain, and the reflective shards catch the light of the streetlamps as I land with John on the sidewalk below with a dull thud. John sucks in a sharp intake of breath at the sudden impact and I am instantly aware of the people who have stopped on the streets to stare at the horrific spectacle. We can't stay long though, not when Pria and Var are on our heels. I pick John up by his legs and shoulders and run, as fast as I can, away from Baker Street. The flats and cars and people whizz by in a catastrophic blur and John wraps his arms about my neck and buries his face in my blood stained jaw. I feel his breath sputter against my skin and have to hold the monster inside of me back.

He smells too good when I'm this lost.

I don't know how long I've run. I am not tired in the least, but I slow my stride to keep from jostling John around. He has been utterly still, not moving, not releasing his grip on me in the slightest. Worry starts to sink in. I clear my throat to speak.

"John-"

"He killed her." John's voice is dark and his lips brush against my irritated skin, soothing away the throbbing dull pain. John is referring to Ms. Hudson. The image is still fresh in my mind: Her frail skin tearing like paper, her eyes going wide and white and frightened. I grit my teeth in primal rage.

"I won't let them hurt you John." It feels right to say this. As though this will somehow comfort the shaken doctor. He doesn't respond, just holds me tighter and my heart swells with unprecedented dread.

John.

It is a sharp heated pain in my stomach, the fear of this moment. How was I supposed to fight for John when I can't even fight for myself-?

And my thoughts stop short as we are sent sprawling back, and I clutch John tighter to me, refusing for a moment to let him go.

And I don't.

Not even when my back slams into a cold brick wall and my head and entire body tingles numb. If my head wasn't cracked open before it surely is now.

Muffled, I can hear John say my name.

I feel Var and Pria's presence drawing in, refusing to back down. I will my eyes to focus, for my vision to see clear. When it does I quickly take in our surroundings. We are at the bay where I killed Moriarty. I stand shakily, hearing the lapping of the water to my right. The peir is only three feet away.

I can't help the slow smile.

What a perfect place for murder. Because where I won't let John die I certainly don't have any hopes for myself. I'll drag Var and Pria into the sun with me. It's the only way I can win. The only way I can save John. It takes me a moment but I lean down, pull John to me, and kiss him with everything I have. Our audience no longer matters. Because when I pull away, and when I gaze into his beautiful blue eyes, I am filled with an absolute revelation:

I am ready to die for him.

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><p>Sorry for such late updates, school is well, bleh.<p>

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	20. Twenty

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| Here we go. The Final Fight is just a chapter away. I hope I'm prepared to write the conclusion-I am not. Not an any way prepared. Ugh. Sorry for the short chapter, the next one will definitely be longer. MUCH longer. Because I hate publishing short chapters just about as much as you guys hate reading them.

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><p><em>Because when I pull away, and when I gaze into his beautiful blue eyes, I am filled with an absolute revelation:<em>

_I am ready to die for him._

_•••_

My first goal is to knock out Pria.

She's faster than Var, much, much faster, and her nails are long and triangular. They tear their way through my flesh easily, like I am paper and her fingers are the blades.

Var is much more slow, but he's stronger, and while I try to shield John and myself against his blows that leaves so many openings for Pria. I hate to admit it but they're a good team, and they've been doing this for years. I can only think of one thing to do.

John needs a weapon.

If I can get us close enough to Pria without Var landing a blow we may have a chance. I let Pria's claws scrape another gash along my neck, and thankfully she didn't get much force and the wound isn't bleeding as profusely as the others before it.

I land a punch to her side, and I hear something pop as she doubles roughly over. Var takes her place and I keep his gaze as I dodge his rapid firing blows. One hits me in the shoulder but I roll with the punch, fall, and let my fist go through the old planks of wood forming the dock. It's a jagged point, feeble and damp but it's the best we're going to get.

"John…" It's all I have to say. Wordlessly he takes the make shift stake from my grasp and wraps himself about me tighter. My hold around his waist tightens and I find my legs sprinting insanely fast toward Pria. John grips the stake, looking for an opening before I jolt back. Pria's hand has shot out, alarmingly sudden, and I am not fast enough. I assume she's aiming at me, the way her fingers are pointed towards my left eye but she veers off course and I hear John give a sharp intake of breath, his heart stopping and then spiking furiously back up. I can smell is infuriating blood. Pria's eyes mist over then, and she draws her hand back, licking John's blood from the cracks in her fingers. I lash out wildly and catch her jaw; a sickening crack fills the night air. I jump as Var manifests himself between Pria and I and I take this moment and blissful distance to turn my head to look at John.

I find myself freezing.

I can't move.

The right side of his face is terribly marred, stained bloody crimson red and I reach a shaking hand to try and clear the thick liquid from above his eye.

He smiles weakly up at me.

He opens his mouth to speak but my head is snapped to the side, and even as I try to hold onto John he slips from my grasp and falls against the wood beneath us. My ears are ringing I can't hear anything. Var grabs the back of my neck and pulls me up, jerking my head roughly back and I desperately try to clear my throat of the clogging blood. My right ear is bleeding. I can feel Var breathing heavily into my ear, and I am thankful that I was able to land at least one blow to his leg.

His stance is slightly weak. I can hear John being pulled up as well, his feet shuffling against the wood beneath us and I curse my eyes into focus. Pria holds John again, and Var holds me. My eyebrows knit together. How did I let us end up in these positions?

Pria's smiling, her hair tangled and eyes black, her mouth red and close to John's ear, her fangs yellow razor blades against her tongue.

"You're so _predictable_, Sherlock." Var hisses against my ear, his breath cascading in sour gusts across my shivering skin. "He's your weak point-that human. I can't think of any better way to get our point across." I am struggling now, lashing out but a brutal strike to the side of my head gets me dizzy and the monster in me goes deathly silent. For once I long for the noise. I can't win while I am in control. Perhaps this is what the demon part of me wants: to let go completely.

I raise my head, the pain exploding like liquid fire through me and I feel the blood rushing from my nose and cracking lips. John has gone sickly pale, the veins standing out sharp and blue on his neck and I want nothing more than to reach out and comfort him.

To hold him to me.

I have underestimated Var-he is much stronger than I originally thought, holding me firmly in place for this long. No matter how deep my teeth sink, no matter how tightly I claw at his arms, his hold does not loosen. I am not prepared for the utter hopeless fear that bursts through me when I see Pria position herself slightly behind John. Because I can see what she will do next, I can tell by the way that Var's grip on me tightens=this last blow will destroy me. I am writhing-I am snarling like a beast but Pria raises her hand nonetheless and I am screaming, my throat stinging raw and she just smiles-a quirk of red _red_ lips before her hand disappears and then becomes visible again through a hole in John's shoulder.

There is so much blood, so much crimson metal that I fall to my knees in total loss of bodily functions.

_John-John-John-_

His body folds like a child's origami and he falls, his broken torn body crumbling like stained cream against the pier.

I cannot feel anything.

He gives a strangled groan and forces his head up-his eyes, once so blue have become so dull and they lock onto mine with an air of finality.

His lips move.

I think he mouths my name. Maybe he says goodbye.

I don't know.

All I am focused on his the gaping hole in his shoulder, and my inability to protect my heart.

Heart.

His Heart.

John's Heart.

Why has it grown so hard to hear?

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><p>OHMYGOODNESS THIS IS SO SHORT. AGH. I apologize, i've been SO busy it's ridiculous. Thoughts on the ending?<p>

More reviews=me not quitting this story.


	21. Twenty One

Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| Here we go. Prepare yourself guys. I was sobbing while I was writing this.

Sorry if you cry as well.

But it means I did a good job.

Here it is, the final chapter.

Dedicated to all you wonderful people.

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><p>Everything from the moment John's crippled body hits the wooden planks to the start of Pria's laugh I have successfully managed to abandon all portions of humanity I had left. Who cares now, that I have failed? John will die; she broke more muscle and nerve endings than bone. He's already beginning to slip away. Why should I care about my human side anymore? They took my heart from me, they took John.<p>

That's it.

It's over.

I never realized I can move this fast.

Var is between my hands in a second and I'm slamming him down, his head hits the wood bellow us over and over and over again until I hear his skull crack and his hair tear out with the splintering planks. He's clawing at me, utterly vicious, his nails catching and tearing my lips, my eyes, my ears, my hair-absolutely everything his grip can find purchase on.

I don't feel it.

I know it's bad because my whole face feels completely wet with my pouring blood but I don't care. Var's screaming, high desperate cries that bounce off the reflective surface of the water below us. To my surprise Pria's not moving. She's standing still, watching with a calm final look in her eyes.

To hell with her. Two more bashes of Var's head and the back pops like a balloon, his blood and grey dyed brain matter spilling like ground meat over the boards and falling with dulled plops into the water below. I twist and his head rolls away from me, rolls to Pria and bumps like a lost dog against the tips of her red-heeled shoes. She's just staring down at Var's lifeless mangaled features and I break off a makeshift stake from bellow me and ram it into Var's heart.

I am not taking any more chances. I can hear John though, he's still struggling still writhing, and in a second I call for an ambulance. I have to try and save him at least. I kick Var's body off the dock like it's a stone and, like a stone; it falls and sinks wasted into the dark churning waters. Now it's just Pria and I and the glowing sky, and I find myself before her in an instant. She's staring at me with a neglected gaze, a withered smirk.

"_Damn_ you." She whispers, because the reality sinks in and she can't win. She never could.

" I'll meet you in hell." And her head rolls down, her hair following it like a tail, until if tumbles over the pier and joins Var in the waters. Her body's next and I think I break her leg swinging her away. I feel dizzy, utterly dizzy and I lick the blood off my hands to clear my mind. Better. The monster's dormant now.

"Sherlock." John's voice snaps me back and I am kneeling beside him before he can finish his thought. Gently I gather him in my arms, pull him close to my chest, and hold him as close as I physically can.

I don't want to let him go.

I am not ready for solitude again. I am not ready to loose my heart.

"It'll be alright, John." I whisper, my voice cracking and turning me weak. Which I suppose, is the truth. I am hiding nothing now. I am crying. John Watson really is incredible, to make me cry twice without shame. He smiles weakly up at me, a faint brush of pale cracking lips before sighing painfully through his nose.

"I'm a doctor, Sherlock, I know I won't make it." I give a strangled sob and lean myself down; bow my body so that my cold blood soaked forehead is pressed tight against his hot clammy one.

"John Watson, if you do something as utterly boring as die on me tonight, I-"

He interrupts me with a kiss.

A sweet, waning, chaste kiss, and I can't help the trembling of my lips, the tight bruising hold of my grip. Don't die, I think, don't die, don't die, don't die, don't die-

"Don't you know I can't live without you?" I choke because it's true. I can't. I really truly can't. The sky is lightening, a small dusting of pink. The shadows start to come out.

And I know in that instant that I am not leaving.

John seems to realize this too because his smile fades and he looks up at me with pleading eyes. He gives a slight shake of his head, a weak gesture of 'no'. I smile and kiss his forehead, softly, just once, because I always wanted to.

"I was so alone," I hear myself saying, I'm talking because John no longer can, "And I owe you so much." I have to prepare myself for my next words, because just thinking them kills me, "I love you, John Watson." John's expression fades to one of pure contentment and he gives a slight nod, a grateful understanding. He opens his mouth to say something but freezes.

_He goes limp in my hold._

At first I feel nothing as I gaze into his abandoned blue eyes, feel the weightlessness of his body, the slack parting of his blood trickled lips. He is so broken but he looks so peaceful. I assume that's something.

So, without feeling much of anything, I ghost my fingers over his eyes and slip his eyelids shut.

Now he's sleeping. He's just sleeping, and we will wake up tomorrow in each other's arms, safe and sound in our flat of 221b Baker Street. He will roll over and kiss me, wake me, and I will tell him about my dreams. I will tell him about their meanings.

I will be with him again.

The tears are violent and they fall without remorse, and the blow to my heart when I realize that he won't wake up beside me tomorrow is so great that I scream. I scream as loud as I can and until my throat burns raw.

Because my John is gone.

I can hear the sirens, muffled in the distance and I know they're too late. Two minutes too late. And I hate everything. I crush John to me, bury my face in his hair, in his neck, kiss every part of him that I can reach.

I keep saying his name.

Over and over again, like it's my prayer, my savior, because it is. When the sun touches my skin I am calm. I am holding John and I am calm. I will see him again. I will see him smile. The sun, surprisingly, doesn't hurt me.

It tickles, and I watch as I start to fade away like rose petals. I am totally calm. I close my eyes and I see John. He looks perfect, free of blood, free of wounds. He's holding his hand out to me and I take it without hesitation.

John's my home.

John's my heart.

And as I fade away against the sun I say his name, just because I can.

"John."

**END**

* * *

><p>Thank you everyone for the wonderful reviews! I have had a blast writing this story and although you guys will probably hate the ending with all your hearts ( I am truly sorry) it had to be done. It was set up from the very beginning so…there we go.<p>

End of "Nightlock".

Or is it?

;)


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